


The Ink In My Pen Ran Dry Long Before Your Smile

by lammermoorian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-24 02:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6138834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lammermoorian/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Sam of Sauville wants only one thing for his college experience: anonymity. Castiel, his bodyguard, just wants the year to go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over the Hills and Far Away

Dean hasn’t stopped making Clark Kent jokes since they left for the airport. “Mild-mannered Sammy Wesson; college student by day, crime fighter by night!” He cackles like it’s actually funny; from the rearview mirror, Sam can see Anna, respectfully, roll her eyes. 

“Quit it, dude,” says Sam, fiddling with his fake glasses. “I’m genuinely nervous about people recognizing me… which is why I can’t quite fathom why _you’re_ coming along.” 

Dean of the house of Winchester, crown prince of the Kingdom of Sauville, and darling of the paparazzi, gasps, offended. “Well, excuse me for wanting to see my little brother off to uni! You’re going all the way to America - and not even to New York, or DC - my baby bro’s gonna be all the way in California!” He draws Sam into a headlock, grinning, “Why couldn’t you just go to the Sorbonne, like me?”

“Because, Dean,” grunts Sam, twisting his way out of his brother’s arms, “Stanford has - ugh - one of the best law programs in the world, and I’ve always wanted to see America, _and_ it’s none of your business anyway,” he grumbles, knocking his shoulder into Dean’s side for good measure. And Dean calls _him_ the bratty one.

“Don’t be like that,” Dean sighs. “I’m just gonna miss you, is all.” He slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, draws him close. “It’s not exactly a hop, skip and a jump away.” Nose to his hair, they sit for a moment and breathe together as they pull up alongside Heathrow Airport. “You’re going to be halfway across the world, Sammy. Who’s gonna look out for you if I’m not there, huh? Who’s gonna make sure you eat and get outside and have some fun every once in a while?”

Sam smiles, drinking in the warm embrace of his brother, his best friend, before he embarks on his grand adventure. “I mean, the plan is to make friends, so who knows. Maybe one of them.” Anna quietly gets out of the car, moves to lean against the passenger side, checks her watch. She knows, somehow, when to make her exit, when to give them some space. What a great bodyguard. He turns into Dean’s embrace, nose into his neck. This right here, the canopy of his brother’s arm, this has always been his home, his sanctuary, when their father was gone and the castle so cold and lonely. But it’s time to leave, to move on to warmer, greener pastures, to move out from under the shadow of Dean’s arm and make his own shadows. Still. “I miss you already, big brother. Can’t wait for you to come visit.”

His arm tightens. “Yeah. Me too, kiddo.”

There’s a knock on the passenger window. “Excuse me, sir,” comes Anna’s voice, muffled through the glass, “Hannah has arrived.” 

“Thank you, Anna,” Dean says, bending over to rummage around in the bag at his feet, slipping on an obnoxious red snapback. “What do you think, Sammy? Great disguise, huh?”

“Sure, Dean,” says Sam, already halfway out the car, “You’re a regular chameleon.” 

Hannah is a tall woman, slender in a smart pencil skirt and jacket, much older than she looks, who dips her head while shaking his hand. She’d been part of Sam’s small security team during prep school; she hadn’t been the strong, stoic type, like Anna, but warm and intelligent, kind and cheerful whenever Sam was lonely or down in the dumps. He always did like Hannah. “It is a pleasure to serve you again, sir. I will accompany you to San Francisco, where you will meet your assigned security head, and then I will leave you.”

“Wait, you’re not -” he turns to Anna, confused, “she’s not my bodyguard?”

“No, sir,” Anna says, typing something on her phone. “Your security head requested to be sent ahead in advance, in order to prepare your living arrangements and canvas the area. Here,” she hands her phone to him, the dim screen displaying a man’s picture. 

He’s a very fine-featured person, with dark hair and shockingly blue eyes. Sam quickly reads over the dossier - two tours of Iraq in 2005 and 2007, fluent in several languages including French, Italian, and Russian, licensed aircraft pilot - before he registers the name. “Castiel Milton?” Sam gapes at Anna. “Are you two related?”

Anna Milton rarely smiles, but she will let herself grin a little, when she is particularly proud of something. “He’s my cousin,” she tells him, lips curved up ever so slightly, “and one of the many applicants for your security head. Given the extent of his combat training, defense background, and other skills, he comes highly recommended by me for this position, and I say this without any nepotism whatsoever.” 

“Relax, dude,” Dean bumps Sam’s shoulder with his own, hat pulled down over his eyes, rolling Sam’s suitcase to a stop beside his feet. “You’ve got the second-best stick in the mud around, approved by _the_ best stick in the mud,” indicating Anna, who raises a delicate eyebrow at her employer, “and you’re being accompanied by the, uh, _third_ -best stick in the mud,” indicating Hannah, who politely stares at him until he trails off, “so you know… don’t sweat it.” 

“I’m not - “ 

“You got your ticket, then? Passport? Headphones? Signet ring in case you decide to hit up a strip club and want some diplomatic immunity?” he interrupts, loudly, Sam suddenly keenly aware of the steady flow of people in and out of the terminal, busy even at seven AM.

“I’m not going to go to a strip club, dude, come on, and keep your voice down, please.” He won’t have time, for one, in between studies and extracurriculars - he’s hoping, anyway. Besides, girls in micro-underwear aren’t exactly Sam’s… type. “I’m trying to be incognito, remember? Mild-mannered Sam Wesson?”

“But you _do_ have the ring?” Dean’s already got his hand in Sam’s backpack, rifling through like the fussy mother hen he secretly is. Sam could shove him off and storm into the terminal, Hannah on his heels, grumbling about overprotective brothers and _why am I even wearing these glasses if you’re just gonna blow my cover anyway_ , but past experience has taught him that it’s just better for his brother’s overall health to let Dean fret. Satisfied, he lets go of the bag, pulling Sam into a deep hug instead, fists balled in his shoulderblades. “Call me as soon as you land, alright?”

Sam nods into Dean’s shoulder. “I will.”

“And call me if you want to come home sooner.”

“Dean, my visa - ”

“And call the embassy if there’s any trouble.”

“Dean - ”

“And promise me you’ll call if you ever need to talk, okay? We can afford the roaming charges.” 

“I will, but, aren’t you coming to visit me in a few months? I’ll be fine until then.” 

“Yeah.” Dean is warm, solid, familiar smell of forest and fire and city-smoke, and Sam clutches him tighter for one last beat before releasing. Dean holds him at arm’s length, appraising, jaw clenching in that way he does when he’s trying to hide how sad he is. “Yeah, you’ll be alright.” He gives Sam’s shoulder a squeeze, ruffles his hair for good measure, then slips into the passenger side of the car, hand over his mouth. It’s going to be rough, for the both of them - they’ve never been apart for any longer than a few weeks at a time, let alone three months. But he’s sure it will pass sooner than he realizes.

“Well,” says Sam, backpack slung over his shoulder, fake glasses firmly in place and heart just a little bit broken, though he doesn’t know why, “I’m off. Thanks for everything, Anna.” 

She nods, politely. “Of course, sir. Have a safe flight.”

Hannah stays close behind and casual throughout checking in and security, even casually loitering and pretending to check departure times while Sam gets pulled over for an extra pat-down. He’s no stranger to heightened security - he's had a bodyguard his entire life - but the part of him who is used to being waited upon grumbles in irritation, directing his feet to the nearest Admirals’ Club, where he can wait out the last hour and a half until his flight in relative peace and comfort, checking his phone and mindlessly snacking on peanuts. 

“Want a drink?” he asks Hannah, after he’s exhausted his Twitter feed. She laughs, very quietly, over her book, something thick and French.

“I’m currently working, sir, but if you want one, be my guest.” 

“I probably shouldn’t,” he feels bad for distracting her, but he’s twitchy and bored, he needs someone to talk to and the words won’t stop coming. “Dean always said I was the biggest lightweight he knew. I’ll have to scope out the bars for him when he comes to visit later, build up some tolerance.” 

Hannah stills over her book, pointedly not looking at him. Sam sets his teeth, feels his blood start to boil - of all the looks he’s come to know over the years, more than the gawking and the pitying and the empty stare of someone who thinks very little of him but won’t say anything out of paranoid politeness, the one he hates the most is this, the look on a person’s face when they are hiding something so as not to offend him. “What is it?” She slouches, ever so slightly, breath leaving in a soft sigh as she closes her book with a soft rustle. “Hannah?”

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, sir,” she says, looking away, “but your brother won’t be able to visit you this year.”

He goes cold, suddenly, a pit of ice in his stomach that spiderwebs out into his limbs, freezing his fingers and numbing his spine. “Oh,” is all he can say, not the “why” that gets stuck in his throat, choking him. “Oh.”

“It was a very recent change,” she confesses, mouth twisted up in a smile that aims for sympathy and ends up closer to a grimace. “I only knew about it because,” and then she huffs a laugh, lips stretching into a self-conscious grin, “well, because I’ve just been promoted, actually. As soon as we make contact with your security head, I am returning to Sauville to take up my new position as deputy head for your father.” 

“Congratulations,” he says, but it’s hollow, distant, only half-listening. There are details here that aren’t quite adding up, the picture blurry. “Wait a minute,” he says, digesting her words. “Was I… was no one going to tell me?” Anna has the best poker face he’s ever seen - part and parcel for the bodyguard job, he supposes. Hannah’s is good, too, but not that good. Her eyes widen, just a little, spine straightening in shock, jaw tight. “Seriously?” Something hot and tacky slides through his skin, from his toes to his heart, lighting a fire in his stomach. “No one thought that, you know, maybe I should be told about this?”

“You have to understand, sir,” she says quietly, hand twitching as though she wants to reach out and cross the forbidden line, touch his shoulder and breach her contract, run the risk of being fired for a small measure of comfort that Sam _desperately_ needs right now, but she doesn’t. She won’t. “Your father wishes it didn’t have to come to this.”

“To what? To leaving me high and dry halfway across the world without seeing anyone in my family for _years_?”

“He wishes it could be different,” she insists, exuding professional calm but for the tapping of her fingers on the book’s cover, “but he requested your brother’s assistance in several important diplomatic matters that, unfortunately, leave no time for a visit to California.” She sighs, then, eyes soft. “I’m truly sorry, your highness.”

“Whatever.” He knows his father would have some very strong words about his less than princely conduct, but King John II of Sauville can, for the next hour and a half until boarding time, cordially go fuck himself. “Just. Just leave me alone.” She makes as if she’s going to say something, drawing in a soft breath, then retreats, settling into the couch and returning to her book. 

Sam settles in for a long, sulky flight, angrily stabbing at his phone.

He apologizes to her later, as they’re getting settled in the first class cabin. It’s surprisingly empty for a transcontinental flight, just the two of them and a snoring businessman at the bulkhead; he would have thought that their relative privacy would have made it easier for him to swallow the crow, but it’s not until well after they reach cruising altitude that he can work up his courage. 

It would be nice if he could just stew in his own bitterness, but he can’t. No matter what his own problems are, he shouldn’t have taken it out on her - she was just doing her job. “Hey,” he says, turning to her as the flight attendant rolls the drink trolley down the aisle. “I want to apologize to you for the way I acted. Just because you work for my family doesn’t give me the right to lash out like that, especially since… since you can’t really retaliate.” He’s always thought that the first class privacy curtains were silly, but he appreciates it now. No one but her, who’s seen it all and then some, when it comes to high profile clients, can see his red, flushing face.

She smiles at him, easy and genuine as she reaches for her water bottle. “Thank you very much, and I forgive you.” Sam must look unconvinced, because she grins at him, untwisting the cap. “You forget, sir, that you are not the only young, blue-blooded client I have ever had. I’m quite used to sudden, explosive bursts of adolescent emotion, and have since learned not to take it personally.” 

“Still,” Sam says, rubbing his arm, “I wanted to apologize anyway, I was way out of line. I just… I’m really going to miss him. I was really looking forward to that visit.”

“I know your brother had been very much looking forward to visiting you, as well.” She offers him a sweet smile and a potato chip - the only consolation she can give, fifty thousand feet in the air and bound by an ironclad contract. “I can look at his itinerary, see if Anna and I can carve out some time closer to New Year’s, if you’d like.”

He pops the chip into his mouth, shaking his head. “Thanks,” he says, muffled, then swallows. “But no thanks. If my father needs Dean around that badly, then it must be serious.” King John isn’t old, by any means, but Sam wonders. He’s never been exactly warm and friendly, but lately his father has been even more reserved than usual, sequestering himself in his office for hours, barely coming out to eat or get outside. Sam hasn’t actually spoken to him in weeks; he didn’t even come out this morning to say goodbye.

He sighs. He’s supposed to leave these stressors behind in Europe, focus only on his studies, although he’s not sure how he’s ever going to be able to focus without something to look forward to. In any case, he has a long flight ahead of him, and that time is better spent catching up on _Serial_ than by worrying over his emotionally absent liege lord. 

In Sam’s backpack, stuffed into the pocket with his headphones, he finds a small, lumpy envelope, with “Sammy” scrawled on it in pen, in Dean’s scratchy, wide letters. Inside is a small, brassy pendant, a blank, noble face with a curved pair of horns - the pendant he gave to Dean for Christmas, ten years ago. Dean has never, ever taken it off, not even to shower. “What in the world…?” He mumbles, unfolding the letter.

_Sammy,_

_I’m writing this the night before you leave. I should have done this a lot sooner, but I just kept putting it off and putting it off and putting it off. I just don’t know what to say._

_I guess it didn’t really sink in that you were leaving until now. I just can’t even imagine you not being here, following me around. Even at the Sorbonne, you were only just a train ride away, and if I ever woke up feeling like I needed to see you, I could leave after lunch and still be home in time for dinner with your sorry ass if I really wanted. You won’t have that same luxury, and I’m so, so sorry I can’t come to see you._

_Listen - you’re going to have a great time in America, I know it. You’re going to make lots of friends and impress all of your professors, and if you don’t try out a keg stand (is that what it’s called?) for me in my honour, then I will be very disappointed. I’m so thankful the embassy is in San Francisco, but I know it’s not the same as being here, so I wanted to give you this, so you’ll always have a piece of me, a little bit of our country._

_I’ll never forget that day, as long as I live. Ever since then, I’ve always felt like you were mine to take care of, to watch out for and to protect, and you gotta know, Sammy, it’s gonna nearly kill me to watch you get on that plane without me, to a school halfway round the goddamn world, but I know how much this means to you, so I’m letting you go. I had to talk Father out of upping both of our security - he’s worried about something that he won’t tell me, and when he’s worried, I’m terrified. So please, please for my own peace of mind, call me if there’s any trouble at all. Your guy, Castiel, apparently he was handpicked by both Anna and Michael, so I’m trusting him to look out for you - you make sure he knows that._

_I’m gonna miss your sour face at breakfast and your dumb, nerdy mythology books and our LOTR marathons. You’re gonna blow them all away._

_Come home safe, okay?_

_Love you, little brother  
Dean_

Hannah silently gets up from her seat, making her way down the aisle to the bulkhead. Sam wipes the tears away from his eyes, paper crinkling in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bodyguard fic! Please be nice. Will be updated probably sporadically, although I will always have one chapter in advance written.
> 
> Major shout out to tumblr users kavakat, for beta-ing, awabubbles, for her phenom fanart, and wordsinhaled, for helping me come up with the au in the first place


	2. Contact

At moments like these, Castiel almost regrets quitting smoking. 

He’s beaten the shakes and shivers so long ago that his hand is steady as ever as he checks on the status of his new employer’s flight. Smoking worked wonders for his nerves, the tight, angry pit of worry in his stomach ever since he came home, so much so that it dulled the world around him to the point where it became stale, lifeless, threadbare. Smoking’s replacement, photography, is a good hobby for a bodyguard - it gives him an excuse to study his surroundings, and helps him to keep his eyes peeled for anything potentially dangerous.

As healthy as his new habit is, he can only take so many indirect photos of the California morning sunshine, and he can only read so many articles about ethics in photography abroad, or absurdly expensive, top-of-the-line cameras. He doesn’t even have a real camera, as much as he would like to own one - just his phone. 

Given that Prince Samuel of Sauville remains a mystery to the general public, in stark contrast to his older brother who adores being photographed at every turn, Castiel will need a clean, sturdy handle on his attention, remaining undistracted and unaffected.

He’s taking a picture of palm trees, casting short shadows on the pavement, when he spots Hannah and her charge exit the building, making a beeline straight for him. Thank goodness the prince is traveling with an escort, Castiel thinks, and one he knows. Hannah is quite a good friend, and the one who advised him to apply for this position. It’s particularly helpful since Castiel honestly had not known what his client looked like as an adult; the only photo of the two Winchester princes is years old now, solemn children at the funeral of their mother. 

That small child has grown into a tall young man, thin but wide-shouldered, holding a broad promise in the length of his arms and the size of his hands. He has a firm grip when they shake hands, but doesn’t look Castiel in the eye, almost demure behind his glasses, long lashes fanning his high cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, not too loudly, and, “Thanks in advance for your service,” then silence as he is handed over. Hannah bids them both goodbye as she slips into her taxi, off to her hotel for the night, and then they are alone. 

Sam stands a less-than-casual four feet away, slumped over, head bowed over his phone. “Let me take your suitcase, sir,” he offers. Sam nods, waving a hand absently, not even looking at him, but tapping away at the screen instead, and Castiel resigns himself to another few years of guarding a bratty adolescent. How wonderful.

Palo Alto is roughly a half hour drive from the airport, short and somewhat pleasant, flat, rolling acres of development giving way to a faint hint of hills in the far horizon, peeking out between billboards and highway signs. But the bay air is strong and salty, the sun is brightly shining, and the ride is smooth and quiet. So quiet, in fact, that when Castiel glances over to the passenger side as they pull off the highway, to let him know they’re approaching their destination, he sees that Sam is fast asleep, faced pressed up against the window, snoring softly.

Well. He supposes a transcontinental flight like that would knock anyone out. 

Pulling up alongside the apartment building, Castiel is struck with his first dilemma of the day: how to wake Sam up. He could either keep saying his name over and over and hope that Sam somehow hears him, deep in unconsciousness, or he could try to physically rouse him. Unnecessary touch between a bodyguard and their client is, on the whole, quite expressly forbidden, but he supposes in this case, it is forgivable. He reaches out, curls his fingers around the warm, thin shoulder, and gently shakes Sam awake, speaking softly. “We’re here, sir.” Sam blinks slowly, brow wrinkling as he tries to rouse himself, drawing a shaky hand over his eyes and grumbling in French as he fumbles for the car door. Eventually, he gets his legs out, elbows balanced on his thighs with his head in his hands. “Do you require assistance?”

Sam shakes his head. “Give me a minute,” he mumbles into his skin. He’s so sleepy he lets himself be gently directed, out of the car and up the stoop into the apartment building, a warm, solid body knocking into Castiel’s side as he sways on his feet. Castiel props him up against his suitcase in the corner of the elevator, standing a respectful distance away in his own corner.

Ideally, Sam should really stay awake as long as possible. Not only is it the best way to beat the jetlag, but they have to go over Sam’s schedule for the week, confirm the meeting with the embassy and with Stanford’s Dean of Students, review each other’s identities, and finish getting settled. Get to know each other. Professionally-speaking. Castiel would like to know whether his employer plans to spend all his free time indulging in typical American collegiate activities, as he expects any young person coming to a new country would like to do, and what to do in case of an emergency. It's best they get this worked out now, and not so deep into the semester when they have developed bad habits.

The apartment they will be sharing is a roomy affair; two-bed, two-bath, full kitchen. Castiel has spent the last several days in this building scoping out sniper points, committing all exits to memory, and replacing the bedsheets. He sits Sam down at the kitchen table, one hand on his shoulder, saying, “I'm going to make you some coffee. Don't fall asleep on me, okay?” Sam nods, heavily, cheekbone resting on the flat of his fingers, the skin of his mouth pulled up to reveal a flash of white teeth.

It’s not a dignified look for a royal. It’s just so… normal, so mundane, so silly a look that he is taken aback a little, has to pause and consider it as he turns, stepping up to the counter to boil the water. The rumors and speculation that surround the youngest son of Winchester are great and varied. With nothing to work with, media outlets have invented entire personas for him, have documented whole alleged lives of romantic trysts and reckless acts of rebellion, never mind the fact that he only turned eighteen a few months ago. What a sobering thought, to think that this young man will never have a clean slate. Even Castiel has been drawn in with the rest of the world, trying to figure him out before meeting him.

There’s a dull, muffled thud behind him. He turns back, coffee in hand, and sees that Sam is fast asleep, forehead pillowed on the length of his arm. Castiel huffs a laugh through his nose, sharp and short.

He should wake him up, but he won’t. Instead, he places his hands on Sam’s torso, gingerly lifts him up, slings one arm across his shoulder. Holding him by the waist so his feet don’t drag along the floor, he carries the prince to his new room, lays him out on the prepared bed, and closes the blinds for a little more darkness. After a moment of consideration, he takes off Sam’s glasses as well, placing them on the bedside table without a sound.

There’s not much to do while he waits, except re-brief himself on the details of his assignment, he supposes. His new employer’s file is short, curt, and doesn’t offer much more than a single objective: anonymity.

After the death of Queen Mary, King John II had taken both his children out of the public eye, keeping them under lock and key, as it were, and away from aggressive paparazzi. Dean, the crown prince, had chosen to make his public debut as a first year student at Pantheon-Sorbonne, leading parades of enthusiastic photographers down the streets of Paris, a girl on each arm, but despite his numerous excursions and outings, he still managed to complete his education with top marks. In every interview Castiel has seen, Dean has conducted himself with a kind of very gentlemanly charm and integrity - he’s noble in a very old world, legendary sort of way, with an upright and compassionate bearing, and even Anna has spoken highly of him, a difficult feat indeed. Sadly, she had less to say about his brother, just that he was a quiet, serious child. 

Prince Dean, on the other hand, had plenty to say, in their brief meeting a month prior. “He’s kind of a huge nerd, and a workaholic, so you’ll probably have to bodily drag him out of the library when he needs to eat or sleep. He looks sweet and innocent, but he’s secretly a demon child, and he can out-argue _anyone_ \- even our father, a few memorable times.” A strange look had come over him, then, as though he were pre-maturely mourning something. “He’s going to be really lonely. I know security has to be tight, but if there’s any way… any way you can - bend the rules, a little, help him to get out and make some friends, then please. Please, help him.”

According to the dossier, Sam wishes to remain as anonymous as possible during the course of his education, just as he did in preparatory school. Most likely, he wants to dodge the attention of aggressive reporters so that he may more fully focus on his studies, which Castiel understands, but there is always the chance, however slight, that he would like to use this opportunity to get away with as much as possible in this brief period of freedom. 

Castiel’s previous client, a child named Andy, was like that. The son of a famous philanthropist, Andy had wanted nothing more than to lounge around all day smoking pot and reading Kant. Easy money, perhaps, but not very fulfilling - and, if Castiel is being honest with himself, somewhat triggering. The constant, secondhand fumes of marijuana made it very difficult to continue to abstain from smoking. 

He hopes, from the very bottom of his heart, that protecting Sam will be much less emotionally intense.

One hour slips by, then, two, then three. Castiel and Sam really do have a lot of business to get to, but something about the very placid nature of his sleep, deep and easy, his hands so delicately crossed over his stomach, stops Castiel in his tracks each time. It seems like a crime to disturb him like this. He returns to the kitchen, defeated, goes about brewing a pot of coffee. As soon as it’s done, he tells himself, as soon as this coffee is ready, he’ll go and wake Sam up. 

The coffee is long cold by the time Sam wanders in, sleep-rumpled and shy. “Um, hey,” he says, dragging a hand through shaggy hair. “Good morning?”

“Good afternoon.” Castiel stands up, pushing away from the table, hands inching behind his back before he thinks better of it and lets them hang by his sides. “Can I get you anything?”

Sam yawns. “I thought I smelled some coffee earlier? That would be great.” 

“Of course, sir.” Sam slides into the chair opposite, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Castiel should bring up his schedule for the week. They really do need to talk about it, confirm times and places and people. “Do you take anything with it? Cream, sugar?”

“Both, if you can spare it.” Another yawn, even larger than the last. 

It feels bizarrely sacrilegious to turn his back on royalty, unease creeping up his spine, making his skin crawl. He is hyper-aware of everything at this point - the large, uncovered window looking out on the street and the afternoon traffic; the low and murmuring boil of the coffee machine; Sam’s quiet, sleep-heavy breaths; his own fingers, twitchy and anxious. No reason to be nervous, of course, just probably the most important job of his career.

He sighs, very quietly so as not to alarm his new employer. _Get it together, Milton._

Sam drinks his coffee slowly, gratefully, an appreciative hum after every sip. “So…” says Castiel, shot shattering the silence, sitting across from him. What do you say to royalty, anyway? What’s it like living in a castle? What famous politicians do you know? “How was your flight, if I may ask?”

A shrug. “It was fine, I guess. I’ve never been on a transcontinental flight before.” Another sip of coffee. “The inflight food was pretty good.”

“I see.” All the food Castiel has ever tried has tasted like cardboard, at best, but, that’s the benefit of first class travel, he supposes. Sam flicks his hair out of his eyes, yawning again. It hits him, then - no glasses. Sam isn’t wearing his glasses, presumably left on the nightstand where Castiel placed them. They’re fake, then? He should have known that. He should have noticed that. “How is the coffee?”

“Huh?” Sam blinks, dumbly. “Oh, it’s good. Thanks.” Castiel wants to hit himself. He’s lucky his flush isn’t noticeable. What a fine picture that would make, an embarrassed bodyguard, emotionally compromised and flustered because of his client.

The silence stretches on for a few more minutes, Sam tracing the edge of his coffee mug absently. It’s not an awkward silence, per se. Actually, Castiel is quite comfortable here with him. He could sit here all day in companionable quiet with his employer, but he’s been avoiding work for a little too long now.

“Did you want to see my - “

“Sir, I apologize, but we must discuss - “

They speak, stop, stare at each other for one long, sustained moment. Sam’s eyes, no longer blocked by his glasses, are wide, like a deer in headlights. Castiel imagines he must look much the same, deeply ashamed of interrupting royalty, bracing himself for a sharp put-down, as his young clients are wont to do. But the put down never comes, as the moment passes, and Sam laughs. “Sorry.”

“No, sir, I should be saying sorry for interrupting you.”

“Listen, don't worry about it.” He gets up from the table, Castiel following suit. “Why don’t I go and get my computer,” he says, already halfway through the doorway. “We can go over my classes together.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And,” he pokes his head back in, “do we have anything to eat? I'm starving.”

“Not yet.” He hasn’t had time for groceries. “I could order us a pizza, perhaps?”

Sam’s whole face lights up, dimples carved on each side of his bright, blinding smile, and Castiel’s heart gives a deep, frightening lurch. “That would be great! Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, super shout out to tumblr user kavkakat for beta-ing. I love her so much :")


	3. Suddenly Bright and Breezy

Despite the intense jet lag, Sam did manage to get himself up and going early that morning, with a judicious application of coffee. In order to expedite the bureaucratic process as quickly as possible, Castiel had scheduled his meeting with Ambassador Singer at the Sauvilleian Embassy in San Francisco first thing Monday morning. At the time, Sam had seen his reasoning. 

Now, after nearly falling asleep in the ambassador’s office, he just sort of wants to go back in time and punch himself in the face. 

Despite their best efforts, it still takes two and a half hours to get all of Sam’s documents in order. “Sir, if I may be so bold,” Singer says, half grin easing the deep wrinkles on his face, “it would have been much easier on you, and on all of us, if you had just gone public, like your brother. Then you wouldn’t have to bother with all this official nonsense.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, stifling a yawn. “I don’t mind the wait.”

“One day we will have perfected the visa application process, but, sadly, you and I will be long gone by then. Now,” he grunts, “this meeting with the dean is mostly a formality. We've been in contact for a while, now, and she understands your situation, and is willing to accommodate your unique needs. She just needs a paper copy of all your documents, for verification purposes.”

“Sorry if this is a silly question, but you couldn’t have just... mailed them to her, or something?” 

“We could,” he admits, with a sheepish roll of his shoulders, “but she requested a meeting with you personally. After all the trouble we’ve put her through, I figured it was the least we could do.” 

“Do you know” - Sam yawns again, hugely, his hand not enough to cover his open mouth. “Sorry. Do you know what she wants talk to me about?”

Singer hmms. “She didn’t specify. She’s probably just curious - understandably so.” A third yawn had Sam doubling over, jaw wide and eyes aching. “Castiel?”

“Sir.” The man jumps to attention, snapping out of his doze.

“Make sure to take His Royal Highness out for a coffee when we’re done here,” says Singer, rifling through some files.

“Yes, sir, I will.” 

Sam sort of hates it when people use “proper” forms of address on him. And by “sort of,” he means “really.” In his opinion, forms of address are outdated, obsolete, and their only use is to make people feel uncomfortable, inferior on a completely arbitrary basis.

“Anyway,” says Singer, sliding yet another stack of paper into a large envelope, “we’re just waiting on one more document, and then you can be on your way.” He looks at Sam fondly, the wrinkles around his eyes even deeper. “My word. Just look at you.”

“What is it?” Asks Sam. “Do I look strange? Am I too recognizable?” Using just the glasses had been enough in boarding school, and he really doesn’t want to have to add another functionally useless component to his disguise.

Singer shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that.” He rubs at an eye with a calloused finger. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown up well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. It does my heart good to know that both you and your brother are doing just fine.” 

“Thank you,” replies Sam, unsure of what to say. Singer and Sam’s father go way back, he knows, but Sam doesn’t have very many memories of him. The ambassador left Sauville years ago, after Sam’s mother’s funeral, to take up this post in America. 

The ancient fax machine rumbles to life in the corner of his office. “Here we are!” Singer grunts as he pushes himself out of his chair. “This is the last file we need.” 

Sam stands as well, chair scraping as he pushes it back. Castiel is just behind him, practically jumping out of his seat. “I want to thank you so much for all of your help,” says Sam, reaching out to take the envelope from Singer. “None of this would be possible without you.” 

Singer shakes his hand, grip surprisingly gentle for such a gruff man. “It is both an honor and a pleasure, sir, believe me.” He holds every door open for Sam and Castiel as he leads them out of his office and into the lobby. “Now, I’m sure your brother has told you much the same,” he adds, stopping them just before the exit into the real world, “but if you have any trouble at all, our office is open to you at any time, so please, do not hesitate to contact us.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Sam shakes his hand one last time, keenly aware of the eyes of everyone in the lobby firmly fixed on him. He wonders what they’re thinking, if anyone has put two and two together and figured him out.

Secrecy is exhausting.

Castiel makes good on the promise Singer extracted from him as soon as they leave the embassy, turning quietly into a Starbucks drive-thru. “Another coffee, sir?” 

“Please,” Sam yawns. Castiel orders them two coffees; one cinnamon dolce latte, and one black. Awareness slowly returns to him, brightening the morning by soft degrees as Sam sips at his drink. “Mm. Thanks.” 

“Not a morning person?”

“Well, I am, usually,” Sam says. Another sip of coffee. “Just didn’t quite realize how hard jet lag would hit me.”

Castiel glances at him out of the corner of his eye, turning smoothly into the right hand lane. “Have you not traveled much?”

Sam shakes his head. “Not really, no. Went to Greece on holiday a long time ago. I did public school in London, but I could cross the Channel if I needed to go back. This is pretty much my first time away from home. Definitely the farthest.”

“Mm.” Castiel doesn’t talk much, Sam is starting to realize. They are silent all the way to the campus, and Sam tugs on Dean’s amulet under his shirt, for luck.

~*~*~

The Stanford Office of Admissions is a bright, friendly yellow, with a wide, straight walkway. Palm trees dot the sidewalk like in a photograph, perfectly spaced, providing only a little relief from the climbing heat as morning eases into mid-day. Inside the office is much cooler, AC running at full capacity, but still sticky, air thick with humidity. The girl at the front desk wipes the sweat from her forehead, pulling at her red, “Class of 2016” Stanford t-shirt. While Castiel hangs back by the water cooler in the lobby, Sam approaches the desk, fingers drumming nervously against his sealed envelope, glasses digging into the sides of his skull. “Excuse me, I'm here to see Dean Harvelle? My name is Sam Wesson.” 

The student worker nods, her long fingernails clacking against the keyboard. “Just a moment.” She slides the phone set up to her ear, balancing it on her shoulder. “Peggy? Please tell Dean Harvelle her 11 o’clock has arrived. Yeah. Thanks.” The phone is swiftly replaced, her eyes never once wavering from the computer screen. “She’s in a meeting right now, but she should be down in a few minutes.” 

“Okay. Thanks.” Nowhere else to go, Sam stands awkwardly by the front desk, leafing through one of the admissions pamphlets that he’s already read cover to cover. It promises all the same things as last time - world class academics, a global network of alumni, scholarships galore. Safety, secrecy, normalcy.

The girl looks at him, finally - eyes him up and down, full lip between her teeth. “You a freshman?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m a first-year.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lip, and she smiles, teeth white and straight against dark skin. “Welcome to Stanford.”

“Um. Thanks.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that she probably wants to flirt with him. Oh no. Sam isn’t good with… girls. 

“Mr. Wesson?” Calls a voice behind him, and Sam turns, sighing in relief to get away. Ellen Harvelle, Dean of Admissions and Financial Aid, is a tall woman, her gold-grey hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She smiles, laugh lines etched into the corners of her eyes. “It is so good to finally meet you. Welcome to Stanford.” Her handshake is firm, hands surprisingly rough.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’m glad I finally made it here.” 

Silent as a sigh, Castiel is suddenly at his side. Harvelle doesn't blink, but extends her hand to him as well. “And you are?”

“Castiel Milton. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us.”

She ushers them both from the large, glass room, through hallway after hallway of great, open windows, looking out onto the campus below, the quiet, peaceful hustle and bustle of everyday life a welcome soundtrack to their walk. Still, his heartbeat in his ears, he’s way too nervous to appreciate it. At least at his old school, the faculty and staff were much better equipped to deal with his family’s situation. As entitled as it had been, their long and storied history of entertaining and accommodating upper class children made it much simpler for Sam to be incognito by request. America, by contrast, was built on the violent rejection of people like him. 

So yeah, Sam is a little nervous. 

“In here,” says Harvelle, holding the door open to her office. Sam steps in, Castiel on his heels. He sort of wishes he could have this meeting without his bodyguard, but he knows Castiel could possibly lose his job for leaving Sam unattended within the first freaking week of his assignment. So in he goes. 

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Castiel to do his job. Anyone who can run the gauntlet of both Anna and Michael has to be good. Sam just doesn’t know him, not like he got to know Hannah. She had been with him for years, seeing him through the worst of his lonely adolescence. Having to go through the whole agonizing, getting-to-know-you process all over again with someone new is not high on Sam’s list of things to do.

Harvelle closes the heavy wooden door, and Sam winces at the muffled, weighty thump. He can’t read her face as she crosses the opposite end of the table, sliding into her high backed, wooden chair. What could she possibly want from him? A sob story? A study on the differences between European and American education? A current picture of him to leak to the world? “Please,” she says, gesturing in front of her, “have a seat.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” says Castiel. He doesn’t sit down until Sam does, stiff-backed and at the ready. 

Harvelle doesn’t drop her friendly facade, doesn’t lock the door or slam her hands on the table, yelling at him. She simply smiles at him, wide and welcome, dragging the envelope to her. “Well then, I’m glad we could finally meet, Sam.” She pauses, eyes curious. “Do I call you ‘Sam’? Or, ‘your highness,’ perhaps?”

Sam smiles too, tightly. “No, thanks, that’s not necessary. Just ‘Sam’ will be fine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She leafs through the papers, giving each one no more than a glance: a copy of his birth certificate, his passport, the document certifying the legitimacy of his claim to the throne of his country. More importantly, the envelope contains a letter from his father, issuing a just-short-of-royal order to keep his identity under wraps, a memo from his former headmaster, confirming it, and a request for off-campus accommodations. Harvelle hums, then nods. “Well, I suppose that’s that, then. Your case is certainly an uncommon one, Sam.”

The knot in his stomach releases, suddenly. ‘Sam.’ Just Sam. Wow. In the few months back home he had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be anonymous. “Sorry if I caused you any trouble,” he says with a real smile this time.

“Not at all,” she says, slipping the papers back inside. “You’re just lucky you started doing this early on. If your name hadn’t been consistent on all of your transcripts, it would have made my job much, much harder.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. You can thank my father for that. It was his idea.” 

“I admit to being curious,” she says, “along with the rest of the world.” She waits, blinking politely at him, waiting for him to explain. Castiel shifts in his chair, hands in his lap, turns his gaze to Sam as well. He’s curious, too. The silence is thick, sticky with Sam’s reluctance. Her face reveals nothing, just the barest tick between her eyebrows as she slowly realizes that Sam will not continue. “Alright, then. Can I ask you a question?”

Despite his gut instinct, Sam says yes.

“I understand your brother made his public debut when he started university, four years ago, was it? In France?” Sam nods. “I’m just curious as to why you didn’t follow his example.” She looks out the window, onto the lawn, field colored yellow by the sunshine. “Stanford University is a wonderful institution, of course, but we generally do not get applications from students of your… particular kind.” Sam huffs a laugh. She ignores it. “Your application was phenomenal, young man, and I don’t use that word lightly. With your intelligence, your status, you could have gone anywhere in the world. Why here? And why so secretly?”

Ah. The million dollar question. He knows his media absence has been troubling to the world at large - he follows @SauvilleConspiracy on Twitter out of a sense of morbid curiosity - but he can’t find it in himself to end their suffering. Not yet. “In all honesty, Dean Harvelle,” says Sam, “I am simply not ready to, ah, go public. My brother was confident that he could juggle the pressures of academia, a social life, and the media, and when Dean makes up his mind about something, it is very hard to talk him out of it. Despite all expectations, he got top marks, held a steady relationship, and built up an outstanding public image.” 

“Do you not think that you could do the same?” She asks, not unkindly, not probingly, not leading him to an answer. Just wondering. Castiel hasn’t yet looked away from him, his curious stare so heavy. 

Sam taps his fingers along the table, not meeting either of their eyes. “I could, if I had to, but I do not want to. My father and I both agreed that the presence of paparazzi would be detrimental to my education, especially so far from home.”

“I see.” He feels her gaze boring into his skull, considering, piercing. It’s like she can tell that he’s not telling the whole truth. “I have a few more questions for you both, if that’s alright.”

“Okay.” 

Her sweet face turns stony, eyes hard and serious, mouth set in a straight line, as she turns to Castiel. “Mr. Milton, you are Sam’s bodyguard, I take it?”

“Yes.” They glance at each other. Is that it?

“And you are going to be accompanying him on campus at all times?”

“Yes.” Castiel frowns. “Will that be an issue?”

“Only if you’re carrying a firearm.” Oh. “Will you be, Mr. Milton?”

Sam shakes his head, pushes his glasses up. “He won’t.” He realizes, stomach dropping to his toes, that he doesn’t actually know the answer. “You won’t, right?” He asks, glancing to the side for confirmation.

Castiel nods. “I will not be carrying weapons on this campus. A firearm would attract only undue attention and endanger the population.” 

Harvelle nods, satisfied and businesslike. “Your situation is unique, Mr. Wesson, and you have asked much of this institution, which we are happy to provide in your case. However,” she leans forward, staring him down, and it's all Sam can do not to flinch, or look away, “In return, I have to insist that you and your people take every care not to bring danger onto this campus. Your fellow students are here to learn, not to be involved in a potential international incident. Do you understand?”

It’s scary how, in that moment, Harvelle reminds him so much of his father. “Yes.” Castiel nods in agreement. 

“Good.” She sits back into her straight-backed chair, no less intimidating. There’s a knock at the door. Harvelle checks her watch, curses softly. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have. Come in!” She calls. 

The heavy door pushes inward, and in slips a girl just about Sam’s age, hair long and bottle-blonde, carrying a bulging plastic bag. “Hey, mom, I got you lunch!” She stops, eyes wide. “Um, am I interrupting? I can wait outside.”

“It’s okay, we were just finishing up,” says Harvelle. “Sam,” Sam snaps to attention, “this is my daughter, Joanna. Jo, this is Sam Wesson.” She smiles at him again, nods her head imperceptibly. “He’s going to be a first year student.”

“Nice to meet you!” Her grip is as firm as her mother’s, and her grin just as warm. “I hope you like it here! What are you going to study?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Harvelle leans back, watching. “I want to study law, with a focus in international relations.”

“Cool. When I go to college, I wanna do economics.” She beams. “I’m gonna start a wilderness adventure safari in the Rockies!”

He smiles back. “That sounds awesome! I love skiing.” 

“Alright, Sam,” says Harvelle. “Unfortunately, I have a lunch meeting that I can’t miss.” Jo is already setting up at the table, a spread of tupperwares and plastic utensils. “But I did want to thank you for meeting with me.” She stands up, and Sam stands with her, Castiel following suit.

“So, I take it everything is squared away?”

“Yes.” Escorting them out of her office, she rests her hand on his shoulder. She introduced him as Sam Wesson to her daughter. She is touching him like she wouldn’t be arrested if they were anywhere else but here. For the first time, he thinks that maybe his harebrained plan isn’t so harebrained after all. “Well, Sam,” she shakes his hand one last time, Castiel hovering over his shoulder. “It was wonderful to meet you. I hope your time here will be a fulfilling one.”

“Thank you, Ms. Harvelle. For everything.”

“You’ve done all the hard work, young man, now don’t forget. People like me are just happy to get the chance to see you succeed.” She slips back into her office, heavy door thudding closed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ellen's office is based off my mom's, as I have never been to Stanford. The British schooling system is fucked up.
> 
> Once again, tumblr user kavkakat is the light of my life and the savior of the world, all hail <33333


	4. Penny in the Air

To Castiel’s eye, Sam seems in a much better mood when they leave campus, a bit more of a spring in his tired step. He still yawns again as they pull out of the parking lot. “Sir?” Asks Castiel. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Hmm? Uh, yeah, go ahead.” Sam takes off his glasses, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

Something about their meeting is nagging in the back of his mind. “You knew I wasn’t going to be carrying, didn’t you?”

“Um. I was pretty sure?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I was pretty sure!”

“Was this information not in the file I gave you yesterday?” 

Sam shifts in his seat, embarrassed. “I may have… fallen asleep.” A pause for a yawn, his hand flying up in an attempt to stifle it. “While reading it.” 

“I see.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

At a red light, he shoots a look over to the passenger side, at Sam’s lip between his teeth, him hunched over in his seat. “What for? We’ll just head back to the apartment and you can review - “

Sam’s stomach, perfectly time, emits a huge, earth-shattering rumble that shocks Sam into sitting up, staring wide-eyed at his lap. “Oh.” The pink on his cheeks fans outwards, from his high cheekbones to his temples and his ears, and he quickly slips his glasses back on, looking out the window. It’s not until the car behind him gives a mighty honk that he realizes he is staring. 

“So…” he coughs, lurching the car forward, “lunch?”

Sam nods, blush creeping down to his neck. 

\----------

“Sorry about the detour,” says Sam, halfway through his chicken club sandwich. 

“It’s no trouble, sir.” Castiel isn’t particularly hungry, though his BLT is quite good. He leans back in his metal chair, casting an eye across the street, to the kids playing soccer in the field, and back to the outdoor patio of their restaurant. It’s just before 1 PM, lunch-hour busy, loud enough that no one is listening to what their say, but quiet enough not to be irritating. 

Across the table and to the left, his back to the tall line of green shrubbery, Sam checks his watch, pushes the hair out of his face, readjusts his glasses. “So, I was thinking…”

“Hmm?” He is listening, of course, but he is somewhat distracted by the watching. The first few days in a new place, with a new client, are certainly the hardest in his line; every flash of light in the sky is a potential threat, every black car an imagined enemy. He doesn’t have the rhythm of the city yet, doesn’t know how it thrums and beats, and he wouldn’t be able to tell if anything were out of place, if there were any present danger. Hopefully they will leave soon, head back to the safety of the apartment base.

“Instead of going back to the apartment and having me reading your file again, why don’t we just, ah,” he takes a sip of his coffee, third one of the day, “introduce our identities to each other?”

Castiel pauses, turns his head. “I’m sorry?”

“You know,” he gestures with one large hand, waving abstractly in the space between them. “We pretend that we’re meeting each other for the first time, get to know each other, that sort of thing.” 

There is a reason Castiel doesn’t talk much. He’s never been what some might call a sociable person, a personality trait only made worse since he came home from the Middle East. Sometimes, too focused on his job, on the watching and the listening, sometimes his mouth disconnects from his brain, and he says something weird, or awkward, or inappropriate - and worse, it takes him too long to realize he’s said it. 

His silence is a trait which he’s tried to capitalize upon for this assignment. In his long list of past clients, there has not been a single celebrity, philanthropist, or businessman who has made him quite as starstruck, honestly. Even now, he can barely believe that he is lucky enough to guard a member of the royal family, to even be in the same room as one of them. Which is why he’s not sure why Sam is blushing again, eyes wide, until he realizes that, without his permission, from out his mouth had tumbled, “What, like a date?”

“Um. I guess?”

The weight of his gaffe hits him all at once, stomach turning to ice, face burning. For a few brief, eternal seconds, all they can do is gape at each other, wide-eyed and frozen, until, heart threatening to explode out of his throat, he lets the floodgates open, one hand raising as if in defense. “I didn’t. I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t thinking, sir, I am so, so sorry I said that, please - please forgive me me for any boundaries that I crossed, if you would like to speak to Anna and hire someone else I completely understand, and I can recommend several people who - “ This is it, his career is over, his _life_ is over, he’ll be thrown out for inappropriate conduct, he’ll be executed for speaking out of turn to royalty, and _then_ Anna will absolutely destroy him for making her look like a fool for hiring him - 

“Cas!” Still blushing, Sam reaches over, grasps Castiel’s wrist. Time stands still, the rotation of the Earth pauses, and the stars overhead screech to a grinding halt. The warmth of Sam’s grip is like a sun, small but burning, sending fire through his veins, he is sure Sam can feel the frantic pulse of his heart, but he doesn’t pull away. Even through the glasses, Sam’s eyes, green and blue and gold, are arresting, beautiful in their color and impossible to turn away from. “It’s… it’s okay. I’m not going to fire you.” 

The world turns again. “You aren’t?”

He shakes his head, relinquishes his grip on Castiel’s arm. “I won’t. I don’t know what kind of clients you’ve had in the past, but I’m not in the habit of firing people over a simple slip of the tongue.” Leaning back, he smiles, those dimples popping out again. “You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me, either. I know my… position here,” he dips his head, chagrined, eyes down, “is unique, but I don’t want you treating me like… like what I am.” Hunched over, chin raised, his gaze is clear and breathtakingly earnest. “Can you do that for me? Treat me like someone else?” 

A cloud passes over the bright and shining California afternoon, the sunny glow giving way to grey, but Sam’s eyes still shine. He wants this experiment of theirs to work so badly, wants to be anybody but who he is. Castiel can only imagine the kind of loneliness he’s had to live with, shut up in his tower, so full of grief without anyone removed from the situation to alleviate it. Sam needs people, he realizes, needs to know them, and needs them to know him as more than just his title.

“Yes,” says Castiel, “I will.” As Sam’s employee, as a Sauvilleian citizen, he will help in any way that he can.

“Good.” Sam smiles, extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m Sam Wesson.”

Castiel takes it - the code of conduct be damned - holds it tight. “Nice to meet you, Sam. My name is Castiel Milton.” It’s just a game of pretend, after all. They aren’t prince and bodyguard here, in this restaurant, in this city and this country. Truth be told, the idea is very freeing for himself as well. “Do you go to the university here?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m just about to start as a first-year.” 

“That’s wonderful.” Castiel tries out a smile, lets it stretch into a real one when Sam gives an encouraging grin right back. “I’m a student here as well.”

“Really?” He tilts his head, relaxing into his seat. “What year are you?”

He finds himself relaxing too, before he remembers to scan the patio, quickly. “I’m a doctoral candidate, actually, in the department of theology.” 

“That’s so cool!” Sam’s smile is infectious, inviting, indomitable. “Where did you go to school before now?”

He sits back, shoulders pressing against the wooden chair. “Let’s see. Did my undergrad at West Point, then graduated with a degree in Russian. Went on to do a few tours in the Middle East. When I came home, I received my Master’s degree in philosophy from Columbia.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam’s lips moving, reciting every bit of information Castiel has said, committing it to memory. Smart. “I decided then to head West, and applied to Stanford for my doctorate.” It would have been a good life, had it been real.

“And,” Sam squints, focusing, trying to recall, “at Columbia, that’s… that’s where you met my father?” 

So he does remember their cover, at least a little. “Yes.” The official working story is that Sam’s father is some kind of business man, based in Paris, who had been introduced to Castiel by way of his business associate, Anna Milton - Castiel’s cousin - cementing Castiel’s status as a kind, generous, simple friend-of-the-family. “He and my cousin were on a business trip, and they took me out to dinner.”

“Okay.” He nods, glasses sliding down his nose. “I think I got all that.”

Technically, they are done. The game can finish now. “What about you?” Castiel asks, ploughing on ahead. “Where are you from?”

Sam smiles, tightly. “I was born in Sauville, but I live in England with my extended family.” He needed a reason to explain the accent, Castiel supposes. “You know, when my father is working.” 

“And, what classes are you taking?”

“Oh, it’s, um,” Sam clears his throat, lowering his gaze, “I was thinking about, um, pre-law.” Castiel knows his employer’s class schedule, of course, as they went over it last night, but he doesn’t know the specifics. He is genuinely interested now, finding himself leaning forward, elbows on the table. “I’m taking ‘Empathy’ for my THINK class… ‘Modern Political Thought,’ uh, ‘Democracy and the Rule of Law,’ ‘International Law and Relations,’ and… that’s it.” He nods, satisfied. 

“That’s it?”

“That’s the plan. Oh!” He finishes off the last of his sandwich, licking the sauce from his lips. Castiel’s, half-eaten, is folded up in a napkin, to be thrown away. He’s not hungry. “And I’m taking French.”

“French?” The official language of Sauville is English, but most, if not all of the population are equally fluent in French; he would have thought Sam to be already proficient. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder, matches it to a small smile. “I’m fine at speaking French, but my writing really needs some work.”

“What do you want to do after you graduate, then?” This kind of small talk is a little beyond Castiel’s unique experience - the normal questions of “what have you done, what are you doing, what do you want to do” - but he finds he very much likes being normal. It’s thrilling, in its own, quiet way. “Want to follow in your father’s footsteps, then?” He grins, chin in hand. “Work in France? Join the family business?”

All of a sudden, the game is over. It’s as if Sam’s whole body shuts down, all that light flush and shy smile running out of him like water. He draws back into himself, looking out into the crowd, face carefully neutral.

 _What is wrong with me?_ Castiel wants to hit himself. What an awful question that must be for someone like him. Even privately living like he is, the weight of his country’s expectation, of the world’s expectation, must be enormous, especially in relation to his brother. For Dean, at least, the path is clear; prince, king, figurehead. While it seems as though Sam, ironically, has infinitely more choice, in reality his options must be very limited. What can he do, second son of a tiny nation, in a world where noble blood means very little? Any dream, any passion he has will have to be subservient to the will of his brother. For the second time that day, Castiel has made a huge mistake; he has lost himself in their little game and forgot to whom he was speaking. 

This is a disturbing pattern of conduct, the two of them so casual, an unacceptable precedent of unprofessionalism. It’s what they teach you on day one of training, the most sacred rule of protection: the client is not your friend. They can’t be. Emotions complicate matters, cloud your judgement, and make you reckless. For the sake of his job, Castiel needs to stop this in its tracks. To ensure the safety of his client, his prince, they cannot be friends.

In the back of his mind, he hears Dean’s voice, quiet, pleading. _He’s going to be really lonely. Please, please help him._

“Sam?” Castiel asks softly. “We can stop, if you want.” Sam says nothing, slowly and methodically ripping up a napkin, shoulders hunched. A cloud passes overhead, casting gray, chilly shadows on the patio. Then Sam stands up, suddenly, trash bundled in one hand, and Castiel jumps to attention. “Would you like to go back to the apartment?”

Sam nods. “Please.” Eyes dark and jaw clenched, he directs all his focus down, drawing his phone out of his pocket, not looking up even as they bundle into the car and head off.

It starts raining lightly on the way home. Sam, presumably having exhausted his social media feeds, has since turned his attention out the window, one slim finger drawing mindless shapes in the foggy glass, practically radiating discomfort. Castiel doesn’t even want to turn on the radio for fear of making things worse. Though, mostly he’s preoccupied with his own failings on the job so far. Slacking off, overstepping personal boundaries - this probationary period is crucial, and he’s already making a mess out of it. Sam _should_ fire him, right away.

Sam clears his throat. “I hope,” he swallows, “I hope you don’t think I’m being difficult or, or bratty, or something.”

What? “Of course not, sir.” Sam, the difficult one? Ridiculous. 

“It’s just…” he sighs, leaning back into his seat, teeth playing at his lip. “I’m nervous. I want to make things easy for you, and I want people to - to like me, and I want to do well in school and not let my family down. I'm nervous.”

Who wouldn’t be, in his situation? “I understand, sir.”

“And - and I know you don’t know me, but I’m not usually this… weird. About - me. And I’m definitely never this rude, or, or standoffish, or - “

“Despite what you may think, sir, you haven’t been rude in the slightest.” Where on Earth did he get that idea? “I understand that this is a difficult time for you, but rest assured, you have been pleasant and agreeable this whole time.”

Sam sags, sighing in relief. “Oh good. I was worried.”

“If anyone has been disappointing in their conduct, it’s me.”

He blinks, frowning. “What? No, Castiel, you’ve been so great so far.”

Castiel glances to the passenger seat. “With all respect, I haven’t. I have vastly overstepped my boundaries with regards to your personal business - “

“I mean. Yeah, but, you haven’t done anything that I didn’t ask you to. It’s fine! I promise.” Sam smiles, finally, tipping his head down. “I’m glad you did, honestly.”

Castiel turns into their parking lot, pulling as close as he can to the front door, even though the rain has mostly tapered off by now. Then he faces Sam, frowning. “You… you are?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. I mean, I get the whole objective reasoning behind professional objectivity, but honestly? It can be a little lonely sometimes. Not that Hannah wasn’t nice, but,” he shrugs. “It’s hard when the only other person who really knows anything about you has to put themselves at a distance.”

“I see.” He tries to imagine Sam four years ago, away from home for the first time, willfully isolating himself from his peers out of fear that someone, anyone, will reveal his secret and destroy his fleeting grasp of freedom. Small wonder Dean is so protective of him. “Well. I can’t promise that I will be your best friend, but… if you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be here.”

His prince smiles, eyes shining, deep dimples framing his happy face. “Thank you,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Castiel waits for his beating heart to slow down before following him out into the clear day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive
> 
> tumblr user kavkakat is a divine being of celestial power and might, all hail
> 
> glad i got this up before i went on vacation lol xD hopefully regular posting resumes soon


	5. Re-Orientation

Orientation is a little boring, but Sam doesn’t mind. He dutifully wears his red “Class of 2020” t-shirt and listens attentively to the speakers at the various lectures and meetings, fiddling with the hem of his shirt whenever he finds himself losing focus like half of the people around him. There is such a phenomenal wealth of diversity in his peers - both American and international - and Sam revels in the feeling of being small.

Before he knows it, he’s deep in the swing of classes, with already enough homework to put his whole non-existent social life on hold. It’s strangely lonely those first few days; as part of the deal they worked out with Dean Harvelle, Castiel isn’t technically allowed on campus during class hours, instead letting campus security do their jobs, and Sam is already feeling his absence, the space over his shoulder weirdly empty.

But Sam finally makes his first friend on the third day of the semester, in his first Advanced French class - bilingualism has its perks, namely, testing out of beginner-level classes. Their professor has the class pair up and get to know each other, in order to get a feel for their language skills. Sam turns to the student next to him, a tall girl with long blonde hair. “ _Bonjour_ ,” he says, “ _Je m’appelle Sam Wesson, et toi?_ ” 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she says back, “ _Je m’appelle Jessica Moore._ ”

“ _Enchanté._ ” He shakes her hand.

“ _Enchantée,_ ” she replies, smiling wide.

Jessica Moore, he learns over the course of the next ten minutes, is a first-year student from Colorado, an aspiring art history and anthropology double major with a minor in French, works part-time at the Stanford art museum, and after college wants to work to establish better inter-museum art and information exchanges across the world, in an attempt to help return stolen artifacts to their countries of origin. 

It only took those ten minutes for Sam to fall in love. Honestly.

“Why are you even in this class?” He asks, following her out of the room, dogging her heels like the little puppy she makes him feel like. “Your French is fantastic!”

All smiles, she shakes her head, embarrassed but pleased. “I could ask you the same thing - you’re from France, right? Aren’t you a native speaker?” 

His brain stops and stutters for a moment before he remembers his cover story. “Ah, well, I was born in France, but I’ve lived in England most of my life. And my writing is really, truly horrible, so I could use some help there.” A few months at home and he’s already out of practice; he’ll have to start going over his fake identity again every night for a few weeks, so he doesn’t accidentally slip up.

Slipping out his phone, he sends a quick text to Castiel. _Class is over, heading to point A._

_Point A, confirmed_ , writes Castiel back. 

“Point A” being the intersection of Palm and Campus Drive. Personally, Sam feels that the code names are a little silly, but Castiel insisted, setting up required check-in points and safe spots all over campus, so he can watch Sam without actually physically being there. 

It’s a stunningly gorgeous day as they stroll across the campus, the sun beating down on freshman quad, the grass a brilliant jewel-tone green, as trimmed and manicured as a football pitch. Everything is brighter in America, it looks like. He finds that he doesn’t miss wet, rainy Sauville, or foggy England as much as he thought he would. Right now, California may as well be paradise - the endless blue sky and the gentle rolling hills and the desert forest so full of promise. No wonder that the Americans were so violently obsessed with westward expansion, he thinks, with a land like this at their fingertips, chasing the promise of the open sky. Sam breathes in the clean air through his nose, so deep he almost coughs, choking on nothing, red-faced and spluttering. Jessica laughs. 

Her laughter is as sparkling as the rest of her, blue eyes shining, as clear as the sky above them. 

“So…” says Jessica, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I think those tents over there are the club fair.” 

“Yeah?” Down by a copse of trees is a collection of white tents, flaps buffeted by a strong breeze. There are maybe hundreds of students wandering around, filing in and out, rubbing shoulders and laughing together. A lot of people down there. A lot of strangers. 

“You wanna go check it out?” 

“Umm…” He hesitates, clutching at the strap of his messenger bag. 

Jessica stops, reaching out her hand to rest it on his shoulder. Her hand is so warm, a bright point of contact. He’s still not used to people other than his brother touching him. “Sam?” Her mouth pulls into a frown. “Are you okay?” 

Sam had looked up the student population before he applied. Stanford has an average of sixteen thousand students per year, across all of the different schools. That’s a little more than half of the population of his entire country, and something like four times the amount of students at boarding school, and it looks like the entire student body, a whole nation of strangers, is converging on that small collection of tents right now. His stomach churns, skin crawling, and for the first time, he honestly wishes he had his bodyguard with him, to protect him from his own stupid brain.

Heart thumping roughly in his chest, he can feel the solid weight of Dean’s necklace underneath his shirt, the metal warm from his body. Jessica starts to pull him away, speaking softly, “We don't have to go if you don't want to, it's okay." 

“No,” says Sam, almost breathless. “I want. I want to go.” He does. “It's just…” 

“A lot of people?” she asks, smiling so sweetly at him. “It’s okay. A lot of people can be scary.” 

“Yeah.” A deep breath in. He came here to make friends, didn't he? Sam tugs at Dean’s necklace, thinks about how his brother made friends like breathing, good friends, too - real friends, who didn’t only want to be around him because of his family name. Another deep breath. Dean didn’t even have the luxury of anonymity, of being just another kid in the crowd. Sam does; he’d be a moron to waste it. 

It’s just a dumb club fair, he thinks - just a bunch of kids, all as dazed and confused as he is, and all of them looking to make friends. They’re all in the same boat, here. The pit in his stomach settles, loosens a little, and Sam breathes easier. 

"Everything alright?” asks Jessica, quietly. 

Sam nods, tears threatening to prick his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.” He coughs, slipping his phone out of his pocket. He needs to. He needs to tell Castiel. “Sorry. Hold on.” _20 minutes for club fair? Please_ , he writes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jessica says. “Let’s go.” 

_20 minutes, AC_ , Castiel texts back. AC; all clear. Great. 

Up close and personal, the club fair is actually much smaller than he expected. Some clubs have gone all out; banners and posters and badges, while others just have a clipboard, manned by some poor, clearly hungover kid, face glued to their phone. Sam and Jess walk side by side, shoulders bumping. “So,” Sam says as they pass the brightly decorated table for the Knitting Club. “Have any clubs in mind you want to join?” 

“Oh, French Club for sure,” she replies, edging around a group of brightly colored, impeccably made-up sorority girls as they vie for her attention. “Other than that, I dunno. What about you?" 

Sam ducks under a low hanging rope. “No idea. I’ve never really been part of an extracurricular club.” 

They stop to consider trying out for an a cappella group, Jessica impulsively scratching her name down onto the sign-up sheet. “They didn’t have clubs at your old school?" 

“I went to boarding school. They didn't have stuff like this,” he gestures to a sign, wavering in the wind, advertising for the Stanford debate team. “A club generally referred to like, a group of alumni.” 

“Huh.” 

Some papers go fluttering by, then a voice from behind, borne on the breeze, yells, “Stop those flyers!” 

Sam turns on autopilot, hands outstretched, but before his brain can catch up to his body and warn him of any imminent obstacles, he crashes into someone, knocking his forehead straight into a clipboard. Papers go flying. “Oof!” 

“Oh my God I am so sorry! Are you okay?” 

He shakes his head, attempting to clear his vision. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“...Wait a minute. I know you!” 

Sam freezes. It hasn’t even been a week and his secret is already out? What the fuck? Heart thumping in his chest, he looks up to an outstretched hand, leading back into the student worker from the Admissions office. “Oh! Hey!” 

“Hey! Um, it’s Sam, right?” 

“Yeah. Sam Wesson.” And only Sam Wesson Nobody else. “I never got your name?” 

“I'm Billie,” she says, hauling him straight up off the ground. “Nice to meet you.” 

Wow. She’s strong. “You too. Sorry for knocking into you.” He leans down, snatching her clipboard up from the grass. “Uh, I assume this is yours?” 

“Ha, yeah,” she laughs, taking it from him. “Thanks.” 

Jessica pops up behind him, holding out a stack of papers. “Here are your flyers!” 

“Awesome! Thank you so much.” Billie smiles, slipping two pages out and offering them both before tucking the rest under her arm. “As a reward for your assistance, please accept these flyers as a gift from me.” 

“Will do!” Jessica laughs, taking hers, folding it up and slipping it into her back pocket. 

Sam takes his as well, staring at the bright, rainbow logo like it’s an ancient hieroglyphic. Or like a particularly ominous fortune cookie. “So…” he coughs, carefully not looking anyone in the eye. His stomach churns like he’s going to be sick, nerves making his hands shake. “Stanford Pride Alliance, huh.” 

“Yep,” says Billie. “You interested? We’re taking new members for the club, and also adding people to our newsletter. If you sign up today, you get a complimentary rainbow badge.” 

“Um…” Sam stammers, brain grinding to a halt. “I’m not… Could I - " 

“Yeah, I’d love to!” Jessica, bright and sunny, saves him from his awkward stutter with a hand in his, pulling him towards the Pride table. “But, is it okay if I’m straight? Can I sign up as an ally, or something?” She squeezes his hand once, twice, and won’t let go until he squeezes hers back. 

Billie nods. “Straight allies are always welcome at our events, and occasionally we’ll have open meetings, but they won’t be on the official roster. This club is mainly a way for gay kids on campus to find other gay kids, so listing straight allies would sort of defeat the point, you know? Sign up for the newsletter here.” 

“Cool, thanks.” 

"How about you, Sam?” asks Billie, pen poised over her clipboard. “Wanna sign up for the newsletter?" 

Maybe it’s Jessica standing beside him, strong and understanding. Maybe it’s the weight of Dean’s pendant around his neck, imbuing him with courage. Maybe it’s the heat getting to him. Whatever it is, Sam has a sudden surge of reckless bravery, and he holds his head high above the tide of his anxiety, proudly declaring, “Yeah, and I’m gay, so put me down on the roster, too.” 

It’s like all the air is sucked out of him at once, leaving a vacuum of hot, sticky embarrassment, his stomach going cold as all the blood rushes to his face. That was not his coming-out plan. That was not even close to his grand, meticulously organized coming-out plan - press conferences, interviews, endless paparazzi, it was all supposed to happen ten years from now, at the very least, and here he is, blurting his second big secret to the first person who asks. Good grief. 

Billie doesn’t even miss a beat, her thick curls bouncing as she nods. “Alright. Happy to have you, Sam.” 

“S-sure,” he gets out, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He’s going to be sick all over Billie’s nice display. “Happy to be here.” 

From the concerned looks that both Billie and Jessica are giving him, his oncoming panic attack must be painfully obvious. “Hey,” Billie says gently, “you don’t have to sign up for anything if you don’t want to. It’s okay." 

He swallows the bile and the fear all at once, shoving it down until later, until he’s back in the apartment, alone and safe and with Castiel. “No,” he’s shaky, even thought he was going for confident, oh man, “I do. Want to sign up. I do. I just…” Years and years of being cooped up in close quarters with the blue-blooded children of Europe may not have led to any grand realizations of sexual preference on the part of his former classmates - but then, one person’s situational sexuality is another person’s sexual awakening. Still, given his unique position in life and his country’s staunchly Catholic nature, it’s not as if he could have ever acted on it. That’s just how things are in the real world. 

“Everyone in Pride is really friendly, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Billie assures him. “And I'm the president this year, so you would automatically have an in at parties. We’re having one tonight, actually, at Alpha Theta.” 

“Uh-huh.” Ha. Like photos of him at a gay party wouldn’t immediately surface the moment he made his public debut. Not a fucking chance. 

“Hey.” She leans in close, serious as stone. “It's okay. Whatever you want to do is okay. You don't have to show up if you're not comfortable, you know?” Sam nods. “We're here for you. If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to.” 

“Thanks.” 

“How about I leave you off the roster for now?” 

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, fingers grasping fabric and the leather cord of Dean’s necklace. “Um. Keep me on it. I just think i’ll skip the party for now.” But he does want to go to the party. He wants to be a member of the Stanford Pride Alliance. He wants to have relationships and yes, he wants to maybe have some sex, goddammit. And isn’t that what this whole college experience is for? Four years of escapist fantasy where he can be his whole self? “Is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay, Sam.” She offers him a comforting smile, dark eyes sympathetic. “Maybe I’ll see you around, yeah?” 

He tries to grin at her, but it feels more like a grimace. “Yeah. See you around.” 

Castiel. He has to text Castiel. Keep him updated. _Leaving the club fair, heading to point A._

_Waiting_ , he writes back. Castiel is there, waiting for him. Okay. 

They leave the club fair in silence, Jessica in step with him all the way. “So,” she chirps, “can I ask what pronouns you prefer?” 

He can’t even look her in the eyes. “He/him. Thanks for asking. Sorry about that.” 

“You apologize a lot,” she says, squeezing his arm. He’s never known anyone so affectionate, outside of his brother. It’s nice. “But it’s okay. Want me to keep an eye out for hot guys?” 

He laughs like he’s been punched, short and shocked. “No! God no. Let me get settled in first.” Jessica pouts, but there’s no real disappointment behind it, her blue eyes coy and calculating. Sam’s stomach swoops. Thankfully, they are interrupted by the rumble of Castiel’s car as it rolls around the corner, pulling up to the curb where they are standing. The deep fog of anxiety lifts a little, and he can breathe a little easier. “And here’s my ride.” 

Castiel actually parks, and gets out of the car to walk around to them. Sam thinks that maybe next time, he should just roll the window down. “Hello, Sam. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.” 

As proper as ever. “No, you were fine, don’t worry,” says Sam, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” inserts Jessica, thrusting her hand to Castiel. “I’m Jessica.” 

Castiel shakes her hand, dutifully. “Very nice to meet you. I’m Castiel.” 

“So don't take this the wrong way,” says she, “but you're kind of old to be a first-year.” 

He laughs, softly but sincerely, the crinkles around his eyes cut deep from use. Huh. He has a nice laugh, Sam thinks. “No offense taken,” he says, smiling. “And no, I am not a first-year; I'm actually a doctoral student here.” 

“Oh cool!” She beams. “What do you study?” 

“Theology.” 

“Are you doing a dissertation?” 

“Yes, eventually. However, I need to choose a topic first.” He chuckles, smiling, Jessica laughs, and Sam aches a little. No one at boarding school was ever this friendly, this open. It's really nice. If he had to describe his college experience so far, he would absolutely go with “nice.” Even with the panic attacks. 

“Well,” says Jess, slipping her phone out of her pocket. “I've got to head over to my next class. Are you going to be at Alpha-Theta tonight, Sam?” 

Sam shakes his head. “Maybe. We'll see. I'll see you around.” 

“See you!” 

Castiel waits until she has walked around the corner to slip back into bodyguard mode, spine straightening to attention, smile slipping from his face. “Shall we go, then. sir?” he asks, reaching for the passenger side door. 

Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “Please, Castiel. Just ‘Sam,’ remember?” He beats Castiel to the punch, yanking on the handle of the door before Castiel can open it for him and clambering inside.

“Of course, Sam. I apologize,” he says, in the exact same tone he always says it. Yes, Sam, no, Sam, of course, Sam. It’s like he’s just replaced “sir” with his name. 

“It’s okay.” It’s becoming increasingly clear that Castiel is very uncomfortable being around Sam, which twists his gut in a way he can’t quite identify. Ever since lunch the other day, it’s like Castiel has resolved to be only Sam’s shadow, present but silent, and maybe that’s the right kind of relationship they should have, but it’s weird and awkward and Sam really doesn’t want to live with a shadow again. He had enough of that growing up. 

Sam doesn’t sulk the entire drive back to the apartment, but he does deign to look moodily out the window, the bright, sunny weather almost mocking him with its cheerfulness. 

At a stoplight, Castiel finally speaks up. “Are you thinking about joining a fraternity?” 

“What?” Where did he get that idea? 

“Alpha-Theta. Are you thinking of joining it?” 

Oh, the party! “Oh! No, no. There’s, uh, there’s a party tonight I was invited to.” The party that he still hasn’t decided on whether or not he’s going. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on joining a frat.” Dean might be desperate to live the All-American experience vicariously, but Sam has read enough horror stories about alcohol overdose and hazing to put him off fraternity organizations for a lifetime. Sam prefers his social life without humiliation, thanks. 

But it does pose a question Sam actually hadn’t thought of, before. His boarding school in England had been very cloistered, out in the middle of the country, and given that Sam had stayed in the dormitories, there had been no real reason to stray from the campus, or to stay out late in the sleepy, tiny town down the road. But Palo Alto is a city, and San Francisco is a stone’s throw away, bursting with culture and life and things to freaking do. Not to mention the fact that Sam actually lives off-campus now throws a whole different wrench into any potential “going-out” plans. 

A wrench besides the “24/7 bodyguard” wrench, anyway. 

“Hey, Castiel?” 

Castiel grunts. 

"Say I did want to go to a party.” Not the one at Alpha-Theta, but maybe a different college party. Maybe. Eventually. “What would that… like, entail?” 

“Well,” says Castiel, with a birdlike tilt of his head, “the terms of my contract state that, outside of class hours, I am to accompany you at all times, yet I am to remain as unobtrusive as possible in order to preserve your autonomy on campus.” Sam stifles a snort, but Castiel doesn’t seem to notice. “Obviously, you are free to do as you wish, and I will not tell you that you that you can’t go to parties - however. I would strongly advise against attending a fraternity party.” He glances towards Sam, surprisingly earnest. “Not just because it would be difficult to keep track of you. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but in America, fraternities have acquired an infamous reputation for - ” 

Sam shakes his head. “Frat parties are definitely not my scene, don’t worry.” Castiel, placated, turns his eyes back to the road. “But what about something smaller? Like, a normal house party or something? Would you… I mean, if it were small enough, you wouldn’t have to, like…” What is the best way to phrase this without sounding weird or bratty? Hmm. He attempts to convey his meaning with several wild hand gestures, but Castiel just gives him a blank stare. “...Like, actually be in the room? With me?" 

“Sir, your safety - “ 

"I know! I know, my safety, I know, I was just wondering.” Sam’s probably more aware of his safety concerns than anybody else in the world; doesn’t make it any less annoying to deal with. He slumps down into his seat, shrugging. “You know. Hypothetically.” 

“Hypothetically.” Castiel sighs. “Hypothetically, sir, I am certain that my employer would feel that the risk would be too great." 

Too great? What risk? “Okay,” Sam says, leaving that for later. “What about time? I’m guessing I’m going to have a curfew again?” Having a curfew in boarding school hadn’t been that bad, honestly. There hadn’t been a whole lot to do, anyway. 

Castiel nods. “Yes. I have been instructed to set your curfew to eleven PM.” 

What? Eleven? No way. No fucking way. “I’m sorry, excuse me? Eleven PM?” 

“During weeknights. You may have a possible extension to midnight on weekends.” 

Midnight on weekends! “Is this some kind of joke?” 

“These are my orders, sir.” 

Fucking eleven PM. Wow. Sam’s father has really outdone himself this time. “Awesome. Phenomenal. Just - fan-freaking-tastic.” 

Castiel looks like he might say something, but decides better of it, returning his attention to the drive. 

Sam, meanwhile, seethes. The silence is thorny and awkward and Sam hopes Castiel is drowning in tension right now, he really does. 

Where does Sam’s father get off, treating him like this? Dean didn’t have a midnight curfew, Dean got to tear up the streets of Paris until the cows came home, but not Sam! Oh no, not Sam! No, Sam has to stay in his room with the doors and windows shut, Sam can’t get too close to people, Sam has to stay in the goddamned princess tower. 

Friends? A social life? Nah, Sam can’t even stay out late to study. Nope, it would be too dangerous, of course. What possible danger could be all the way out here in Palo Alto, this tiny town halfway across the world? What a load of horseshit. And sure, maybe Michael and Anna both think Sam are in danger from some vague, anonymous threats on his own in California, with only a few bodyguards, but Michael and Anna both are paid to be paranoid. Sam's perfectly anonymous and perfectly safe, no matter what they might have told Castiel. This is just another example of Sam’s father’s delusions and baseless fears of conspiracies getting the better of him, extending his reach as far as possible, specifically to ruin Sam’s life. Wonderful. 

“Sir?” asks Castiel at the next red light. “May I suggest - ” 

“It’s not fair, and you know it,” Sam can’t help but blurt it out, all that anger bubbling over, a raging boil in his stomach, climbing up his throat, threatening to choke him. “Eleven? Really? I’m not a kid anymore!” 

“I know.” 

“He doesn’t get to treat me like this. This isn’t England, or France, or - I’m in America. Another continent. Eleven PM is ridiculous!” 

"Sir - " 

“It’s like he just steamrolls over everything I want so that he can feed his own paranoia, and he doesn’t even consider the fact that maybe I need to be out late studying, or - or might wanna go see a damn movie at some point - “ 

“Sam.” 

It’s the use of his name that snaps him back, reminds him who he is and who he’s having a tantrum in front of. He deflates, all that hot anger stuffed behind the creeping cold wall around his heart. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” 

He sighs. It’s going to be a repeat of boarding school all over again, it seems. Those first couple of years were tough. He remembers pushing and prodding and pleading Hannah to lift his curfew for just a day, just a few hours, so he could go outside and do something with his adolescence, and Hannah politely refused him every time, immovable and uncompromising. Eventually, Sam just stopped asking. 

It’s not fair, and Sam doesn’t care how childish that makes him sound - he’s not a child, and it isn’t fair, and he doesn’t know why he ever thought that college would magically be any different from anything else he’s ever known. 

Castiel taps his fingers along the steering wheel. He clenches his jaw. He exhales sharply through his nose, and begins, haltingly, “May I suggest… a probationary period, of sorts.” 

Sam frowns. “What do you mean?" 

“Let’s say we wait a month.” He leans back into his seat, shoulders rolling. “Then, if I deem the risk of danger to be negligent, I could possibly petition for a later curfew.” 

Sam’s heart skips a beat. “Later? Like… how much later?” 

“Say,” Castiel shrugs, “two AM?” 

Two AM. Three extra hours. Three extra hours to study, to explore Palo Alto, to stay out with a friend. That’s. That’s a lot. “You would do that for me?” 

“I will certainly try,” Castiel says, pulling into the grocery store parking lot. “If,” he holds up a finger, “if I think that it’s safe enough for you.” 

Sam is stunned, to say the least. “No one,” he swallows around the lump in his throat. “No one’s ever gone up against my father like that.” King John’s word is law when it comes to the safety of his children - no exceptions, no quarter given. Not ever. 

Castiel shrugs, and shatters a wall. “Yes, well.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “What would you like for dinner, sir?” 

"Anything,” Sam says, with a smile from nowhere. “Everything is fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLR USER KAVKAKAAAAT, HER NAME IS TUMBLR USER KAVKAKAAAAAT, AND THERE'S A MILLION THINGS SHE HASN'T DONEEEE, BUT JUST YOU WAIT!!!! JUST YOUUUUU WAAAAAIT!!!!!!
> 
> :*


	6. The Thin of the Wedge

Before either of them have realized it, September is almost over. The days are marginally colder, minutely shorter, and each one is spent much like the previous: Castiel playing the part of glorified chauffeur, shuttling Sam back and forth between campus and the apartment twice a day, with occasional breaks for groceries, the gym, and sometimes sleep. It’s a very dull experience, which means that Castiel is doing his job properly. Though, he’s never had a job this easy before. 

To his credit, Sam doesn’t act very high-and-mighty, putting on airs and issuing ridiculous demands, like some clients do, after their first few magical days together have ended. Instead, Sam just reads. Voraciously.

He barely gets up from the living room couch, swamped in his textbooks and handouts, his laptop always open on the coffee table. Castiel is relegated to swapping out Sam’s coffee mug every so often and trying to catch up on some reading of his own. He is falling behind on his Italian study.

He’s been saving _Il nome della rosa_ for his next international flight, but now’s as good a time as any to start. It’s just as difficult as Hannah promised him. Generally, Castiel no longer has trouble focusing, but he finds his eyes sliding from the page, skating over black text until they land on Sam’s mess of brown hair, hunched over his textbook, or the curve of Sam’s knuckles as they rest against his mouth. Eventually, Castiel gives up the act.

Watching Sam study is certainly more of an entertaining pastime than trying to read Italian. He has all these fascinating habits, like how he taps his pencil against his books, or how he bites his lip and screws up his eyes when he’s deep in thought, dragging a hand back through his hair. 

Most interesting of all though, in Castiel’s opinion, is that Sam prefers to keep the television on while he’s studying. Castiel generally likes his surroundings as silent as he is - extraneous noise had a tendency to give him a headache, after his military career - but apparently Sam enjoys the distraction. Their apartment is always full of background noise, the soft, English accents of BBC World News carrying on well into the night as Sam studies and studies and studies. 

Dean’s “workaholic” comment echoes in the corner of his memory, spurring Castiel to try to get Sam’s attention before he forgets to eat. Again. “Sir.” Sam doesn’t look up, flipping the page of his heavy textbook. “Sir,” he says again, louder.

“Hmm?” grunts Sam, eyes glued to his textbook.

“How about a dinner break, sir?” 

Sam looks up, blinks twice, vaguely confused. “Dinner? What time is it?”

“Nearly seven-thirty.” It’s not too late in the evening, but Sam will sometimes require a little prodding to get him to eat before he works himself to exhaustion. Also, Castiel is hungry.

“Seven-thirty? Jeez.” Sam yawns, stretching his arms over his head, the long line of his spine arching and his vertebrae audibly popping as he unfolds himself from his study-hunch, before he reaches his zenith and falls back to relaxation against the back of their couch with a soft, pleased sigh. “Okay. How about I take a quick shower first, then we can eat?”

Castiel nods. “I’ll get started right away. Any requests?” 

“Surprise me.” He waits, though, until Sam gets up from the couch with a yawn, watches him walk away and shut his bedroom door first. Even if work has been slow, his job is to keep an eye on Sam at all times. Slacking for even a moment could prove utterly fatal.

Now, what to do for dinner? He’s in an Italian sort of mood, so he decides on a homemade tomato sauce. He manages to chop all of his ingredients and start the pasta water to boil before his phone buzzes - must be Mourand, Castiel’s deputy, for the evening check-in.

Even though Castiel is the only person visibly shadowing Sam, Sauville’s younger prince’s security detail actually consists of a handful of people, strategically placed with covert identities in order to protect their employer without giving away his identity. To preserve some of Sam’s private autonomy from obligatory surveillance, Castiel negotiated down the installation of security cameras around the apartment from a camera every six feet to one which covers both the front door of the apartment building and the exterior of Sam’s bedroom window, and flat out refused the use of hidden microphones, leaving the team to resort to a system of check-ins by text. 

_No visual on subj_ , reads Mourand’s text. _Confirm situation - C2_. Sam must have shut his blinds.

 _Subj attending to person_ , Castiel writes back. _Threat lvl 3 - CL_. “Attending to person” is a little vague, admittedly, given Michael’s explicit emphasis on clarity and accurate communication, but does the whole of Charlie Team really have to know that Sam is taking a shower? Certainly not. Besides, university is a time of personal questioning and exploration, and from what he’s gleaned on this job, Sam is a rather private person. Hopefully, he appreciates the discretion.

The quiet hum of the BBC is a surprisingly welcome companion while Castiel cooks dinner, the smell of garlic and tomatoes thickened by steam. Unfortunately, the act of making dinner does not occupy enough of his conscious brain. He is somewhat at a loss of things to do when he is by himself for any amount of time, these days, and anxiety rears its ugly head as he finds himself glancing from the windows to Sam’s door and back again, a vague unease knotting his stomach. To quell his rising anxiety, he goes over drills and evacuation plans in his head. The plans don’t need reviewing, of course, but it never hurts to be prepared.

_In event of identity slip, contact in order: Ambassador Singer, Bravo Leader Anna, Alpha Leader Michael, wait for further instruction. Threat levels in ascending order: three - no threat, two - mild threat, one - high threat, zero -_

“Mmm, whatever you’ve made smells great,” comes Sam’s voice as he walks out of his room. By a stroke of wonderful coincidence, Castiel is pouring tomato sauce over the spaghetti just as Sam has finished his shower, hair wet and dripping over his shoulders, soaking the tops of his t-shirt. His skin is flushed pink from the heat, from the tip of his nose to the apple of his cheeks, smiling bright.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, a light puff of pride in his chest. “It’s just some pasta sauce.” Castiel is no professional chef by any means, but he has been practicing. “Please, sit, I’ll bring you a plate.”

They share a pleasant meal together, Sam on the couch and Castiel on the loveseat, and chat about tomato sauce. Sam, he learns, has never really attempted to cook, but used to watch the family chef hard at work as a child, and has always wanted to learn how to bake bread. Sam has perfect food etiquette, he notices; he rolls spaghetti with his spoon, eats in small, quiet bites. It’s impressive, actually. Etiquette is somewhat of a dying art. 

But he no longer sits ramrod straight around Castiel, letting his shoulders slump a little, relaxing into the back of the couch. As Sam relaxes, Castiel relaxes also, whatever knot of tension unwinding until he feels as though he can breathe again. When he’s not worrying about making friends and fitting in at school, Sam is a bright, cheerful young man, open and straightforward. Even around Miss Moore, his first American friend, Sam will guard himself closely, flashing a politician’s tight lipped smile. An unworried Sam is a very pleasant Sam, and makes for very comfortable companionship, even when silent.

When they are finished, Castiel gathers up the dirty dishes as Sam turns the TV volume up, getting to work immediately on washing up. No use in putting it off until later. “Do you want some coffee, sir?” he calls from the sink.

“Maybe later!”

“Later” most likely means yes, so Castiel begins boiling water. He could do with some tea, anyway. 

If there is one kitchen gadget they have that Castiel does not care for, though he does appreciate the boundless generosity of his employer, it is their electric kettle. Ever the nostalgic, Castiel is beholden to the tried and true method of boiling water on the stove, and while it may be faster, the electric one is much, much louder - so loud, in fact, that Castiel almost misses the news.

_“...In related news, the anti-monarchist group Vox Populi released another statement this morning -”_

He darts around the kitchenette wall, coming up to Sam’s elbow, next to the couch.

_“- again calling for greater transparency in the lives of the Sauvilleian royal family. Quote, ‘That you and your kind believe that you can hide your children from your own atrocities speaks to a gross exploitation of your privilege and status. Come out, so that you and your family may face the consequences of your actions.’ Compbelle Castle has not, as of yet, issued a response - “_

Sam sighs. “Good grief, this is like Vox’s fifth statement since Dean’s graduation.”

“Third,” Castiel grunts.

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

 _...Excuse me?_ He better not have heard correctly, because otherwise it sounds as if his client is utterly cavalier about potential attempts on his life. “Ridiculous? Really?” 

“Yeah.”

Three statements in three months? After an average of one threat every year and a half? That’s not ridiculous, that’s escalation. “You aren’t worried?”

“I mean…” Sam shrugs. “Not really.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to alarm you,” except Castiel truly does, “but the number of threats that Vox has made against you and your family has been increasing at a disturbing rate over the last few years.”

“I know,” says Sam, watching the TV.

“I would be worried, if I were in your position.”

“Yeah, but - “ Sam scoffs, “but they don’t do anything. They’ve been making threats for nearly a _decade_ at this point,” he says, turning the volume up further, “and all it is is blowing hot air. They’ve never acted on a single one.”

“That doesn’t mean they never will.”

Sam huffs, rolling his eyes. “God, not you too.”

“Sir, part of my job is to make certain that you are fully informed of the - “

“Jesus, you sound just like Dean. Worry, worry, worry, panic, panic, panic. Give it a rest already.” Sam crosses his arms, slumping angrily into the couch cushions. 

Castiel pauses. This sounds like family business, like old wounds on the verge of tearing anew, re-opening before they’ve healed. And Castiel is far from being a licensed psychologist - he wouldn’t go so far as to say that he himself is fully mentally sound, or is equipped with a variety of healthy coping mechanisms. He should leave this alone, perhaps suggest a visit to a carefully vetted private therapist.

Or maybe he can help. “Does he worry about you a lot? Dean?” He crosses in front of the TV, fully intending on taking his usual place in the loveseat, but he finds himself sitting next to Sam on the couch. It’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off Sam’s body, to better see the tension in Sam’s shoulders as he puts his head in his hands, to hear his ragged sigh, his voice thick with emotion.

“I can’t remember a time when he didn’t worry about me.” Sam drags his hands over his face, sighing deeply. “He’s been calling and emailing every damn day, and God forbid if I don’t immediately check in. The world may as well be ending.” With a melodramatic sort of flop, he drops his head against the crook of the couch, drawing his legs up to the cushion and hugging himself. “I miss him.”

Ah yes. He heard from Anna about Dean’s aborted visit to America. That must have been quite a blow, in an already stressful time. “It seems to me,” says Castiel, carefully, “that, perhaps, you may have been happier attending university in Europe.” It certainly would have put his employer far more at ease.

“No,” Sam insists, shaking his head, “no way. I dreamed about this for months, for years. I almost didn’t tell my father that I had gotten in here because I knew he’d disapprove.”

Castiel frowns. “Disapprove?” 

“Yes. No. Not - not that he doesn’t think Stanford is a good school. But he’s. He really wanted me to go to school in Europe. Dean, too.” Sam sighs, as despondent as any other teenager. “Hell, they would both have rathered that I stay at Compbelle, and just been tutored for the next four years. But I couldn’t do it, Castiel.” He closes his eyes, long lashes fluttering. “I could not stay there a minute longer.”

“I believe your father was merely trying to protect you.”

Sam groans, rolling his eyes. “I am so sick of being protected. I don’t want to be coddled and sheltered and hidden away. This isn’t the dark ages - we have the damn Internet,” he scoffs. “There’s a whole world that I would never have been able to see if I had stayed cooped up at Compbelle like they wanted me to.”

Revelation clicks into place, quietly, like a particularly intricate puzzle. “Is that why you chose Stanford?”

Biting his lip, looking away, Sam huffs. “No. Yes. I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “I just - I just wanted something different. _Somewhere_ different. Somewhere I could just be Sam.” He smiles, mouth trembling. “You know, the Sam who likes Harry Potter, who hangs out with people who aren’t paid to be there, who walks around town at midnight for no reason, except that I can. Not the Sam who’s been groomed since birth, who has to represent a country and a history, who has no future of my own damn choosing.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, at last, Sam meets his gaze, and he is on the verge of tears, eyes bright and shining. “I want to be normal. That’s it. I just want to be normal for a while.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Castiel, uselessly, heart faintly breaking. What else can he do but offer his sympathy? This is an old hurt, rooted deep and dark in Sam’s very heart. One little chat with his bodyguard won’t help him get over years of isolation and anxiety.

The silence passes by unnoticed as Sam visibly pulls himself together, wiping his face with his knuckles. Castiel could get up to get a napkin, but to acknowledge this moment, he feels, would only send Sam further into his shame. Better to bear witness and let him ride this out, rather than to offer him pity he does not want. “No, I’m sorry,” says Sam. “I don’t, um.” He sniffs, rubbing at his eye. “I’m not super comfortable with y-... with people knowing that about me.”

“Well, Sam I’m not exactly ‘people.’ Your feelings are safe with me.” _I promise_. Castiel will take this moment to his grave, if need be.

“This is, um, kind of weird for me,” Sam chuckles thickly, throat still full despite his best efforts. “ I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring it up again.”

As he suspected. “Of course.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says, smiling.

Cas. “Cas. Hmm.” He rolls it around his tongue, testing the feel of it in his mouth. It feels precious, like a priceless gift. “I’ve never had a nickname before.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I like it.” He does, truly. “‘Cas.’ Very normal.” 

Sam laughs, a genuine, full-dimpled laugh, and Castiel can’t even remember that he had ever felt bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the best way to keep up your language skill is to read it, so castiel is reading umberto eco's "the name of the rose"
> 
> also introducing: PLOT
> 
> as always, i hereby pledge my vow of eternal fealty to the most noble and glorious tumblr user kavkakat, may she smile upon me once more in my quest to finish this fic, amen


	7. Keeping Score

It’s a chillier October than usual in California, according to his Stanford classmates - a startling 73 degrees fahrenheit, on average. However, Sam is used to an English October, so he has no qualms about using his hoodie as a picnic blanket for his and Jessica’s post-French class lunches. It’s something he looks forward to every single day - no school, no work, just Sam and his new best friend, and a glorious half hour with nothing to do. And it’s Friday today, which is just the cherry on top.

She seems a little distracted today, though; quieter, more tired. Maybe she has a paper coming up. “So,” she asks, eyes down, fiddling with the foil of her burrito, “how’s Castiel doing?”

Sam shrugs, swallows a bite of his sandwich. “Cas? Doing okay.” 

“Cas, huh?” she says flatly.

“Yeah.” The nickname has really grown on them both, Sam thinks. “Castiel” is like a mini-Michael - silent, serious, a little bit scary. “Cas,” by contrast, is quiet by choice, a lot funnier than he lets on, and a damn good cook to boot. Cas is certainly a hell of a lot more fun to be around than Castiel.

“So, where is he?”

Loitering around the corner. “Doing some research, I think. But he told me he’d come and get me after lunch, so we’ve got some time still.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Yup.” Though he’s certainly in no hurry to finish lunch and get out. Outside of the library, the Oval is increasingly becoming his favorite spot on campus. The idea of sitting outside and doing absolutely nothing in the warm weather might never lose its novelty, and if Sam is looking at the whole thing through some intensely rose-colored glasses, then who cares. Who freaking cares. The dull roar of student campus chatter surrounds him, embraces him, and accepts him. For the first time, Sam lets himself believe that maybe he really does belong in the normal world. Maybe this harebrained hiding scheme of theirs will work.

Jess’ sharp voice cuts through his gentle daydreams. “You know my roommate? Aya?”

Yeah. Kinda shy, plays video games. Nice girl. “Yeah?”

“I think she’s gonna major in psych,” she says, packing her lunch away. Huh. Must not be hungry. “But she told me she was thinking about doing a double in theology. She’s been hanging out a lot in the religious studies building. Apparently they have a nice zen garden.” 

“Oh yeah?” He hasn’t been there yet, but it sounds like something he’d like. He does miss some of the gardens around Compbelle Castle.

When Sam turns to look at her, he realizes that he’s never really seen Jessica mad before. Annoyed, yes. Angry, no. After a month of her kindness and generosity, he is simply not ready for the icy, stony scowl she is sending his way. “And,” she finishes, evenly, “according to Aya, there’s no theology doctoral student named Castiel.”

Oh. Fuck. “Um. I. I can explain.”

“Oh, so you know that your friend isn’t who he says he is.”

“I. Shit.”

“Wanna explain why you lied to me?”

“No. Yes. It’s, um, not what you think.”

“Well, Sam,” she glares, crossing her arms, “I’ve thought a lot of things since learning that my best friend has been lying to me this whole time. How about you tell me which thought was the right one?”

This is not good. This is so far from good. Think, Sam, think. Damage control, just keep talking. “Can - can we talk about this later?”

“I have class in 20 minutes.” So that’s a definite no. 

“Okay. Okay.” It’s hard to think over the roar of blood in his ears, hard to breathe around the sour pit of panic in his throat. “I - sorry. I’m sorry. For lying to you.” 

“Apology accepted.” She doesn't let up on her steely glare, choking and crushing him under the weight of her anger.

What a fine fucking mess he’s got himself into today. 

There is a single, clear moment where Sam can see the choices laid out before him. On the one hand, the selfish hand, he can either spill the beans, weakening his protection in America, potentially costing Castiel his job if Anna ever found out, and irrevocably involving Jessica in any possible danger that might be coming his way. On the other hand, the smarter hand, he can cut their friendship short, eject her from his life, protecting the both of them, but losing his best friend in the process. His _only_ friend.

Fuck it. Just - absolutely fuck it. 

“Jessica, I haven’t been, um, super up front about. Um. Who Cas is. Who I am.”

“Clearly.” She snorts.

Panic burns through his gut like acid, but he forces it back down. Just breathe. “How - how much do you know about them, um, the Sauvilleian royal family?”

She shrugs. “About as much as anybody else. Um…” She purses her lips, thinking really, really, _really_ hard. Sam’s family _is_ pretty reclusive, to be fair; there’s not a whole lot of information out there. They’re certainly not the Windsors. “Didn’t Prince Dean, like, just graduate from military school or something?” She asks.

Sam shakes his head. “From university. He went to the Sorbonne in Paris.”

“Right.” Jessica frowns, as if to indicate, ‘Your point?’

Sam knows he’s stalling, okay? It’s hard. It was always going to be hard, whether it was his best friend or the entirety of the televised world. “I’m not…” A false start. He takes a deep breath, and tries again. “My name isn’t - Sam Wesson.” It’s like the truth is choking him, wrapping its hands around his lungs and squeezing, forcing his silence. No longer. No more. Deep breath, Sam. “My name is Sam, but my family’s name is - is Winchester.”

“...What are you saying.”

“As in,” he briefly attempts to get his meaning across with some simple, aimless hand gestures, but Jess just stares at him blankly. “As in, the house of Winchester.” More blank staring. He’s going to have to say it out loud. “Of Sauville. I’m Prince Samuel.” He braces himself with a wince, waiting for a shocked gasp, or a million questions, or for the whole of Stanford campus to converge on him, drowning him in shock and awe and curiosity.

Instead, he gets a raised eyebrow. “Is this some kind of joke?”

He gapes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

She rolls her eyes. “Prince Samuel of Sauville? Come on. That’s about the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”

That kind of hurts a little. “It’s - I’m telling you the truth!”

“Isn’t he, like supposed to be dead, or something?”

Huh. Of all the possible reactions he could have gotten, he definitely wasn’t expecting that one. “He’s not dead,” he assures her, slipping his phone out of his pocket and thumbing through his pictures. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Technically, Sam and Dean aren’t supposed to have any pictures together, for a multitude of reasons - the risk of a security breach, the mystique of it all, et cetera - but two years ago Dean got Sam a new iPhone for his birthday, and they just couldn’t resist. There, at the very bottom of Sam’s Photostream, is a good, old-fashioned selfie with his big brother. It’s practically his most prized possession. He hands the phone over to Jessica, with a scared little grimace. “Here.”

“That’s…” she squints, brows furrowed. Dean’s is a newer face on the celebrity scene, gracing as many magazine covers as they can possibly print. But Sam knows firsthand how hard it can be to recognize somebody without all their makeup on. 

And then the penny drops. “That’s - Prince Dean. That’s him.”

“Yup,” says Sam. “That’s my brother. And,” he points to himself, dimples and boarding school regulation bowl cut and all, “there’s me.”

“Oh my god.” Jess goes white as a sheet, jaw on the ground. There’s the reaction he was looking for, and it’s just as uncomfortable as he always imagined it would be. “Oh my god.”

His phone buzzes in her hand and she jerks as if shocked, thrusting it back at him. It must be Cas. “Look. I gotta go. Um, are we - okay, I mean?” Because that’s the most important thing; the truth is worth nothing if he can’t keep his friend.

Jessica doesn’t speak for a while, the long silence descending on the cool afternoon. Sam shivers. “Not yet,” she says, finally, standing up. “You have a lot more explaining to do.” She dusts herself off, snatching up her bag from the ground. “I have to go to class now.”

Okay. Vague, but understandably so. He can deal with that. “Okay. Well. I guess I’ll see you around?”

Stock still, she doesn’t answer him, just stares and stares and stares at him until she turns away, heading off into the afternoon, leaving Sam and his hoodie and the empty vacuum where the warmth of her smile used to be.

But it could come back. She could come back. She hasn’t totally rejected him outright, right? “Not yet” is far enough away from “no” and close enough to a “maybe” that Sam lets himself smile, lets himself push away the heartsick worry. Maybe things will be alright, after all.

***

“You did _what_?”

Or not.

“She figured it out! What was I supposed to do?” 

Across in the armchair, Cas has his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, shoulders shaking. Oh boy. “Lie, Sam. You were supposed to lie.”

Sam clutches his lukewarm coffee mug for safety, shrinking as far back into the couch cushions as he possibly can. “I’m not going to lie to my _only_ friend - “

“How did she know who you were?” He asks, the grit and gravel of his voice the only indication that Castiel is furious. 

Sam gulps. He could make something up - he could say that Jess raided his backpack and found his signet ring and demanded an answer, or that there’s a leaked photo of him and Dean online and she recognized it. He should make something up. “Well,” he coughs, “she… didn’t. Exactly.”

“You told her.” 

God damn Sam and his big fat mouth.

Sam bites his lip, breathing heavy through his nose, trying as hard as he can to calm his wildly beating heart, the thick, roiling pool of nerves in his stomach. He tries to swallow the words that are forcing themselves up, but they spill out of him anyway, like bile. He’s never been very good at lying. “Her friend does theology and knew you weren’t a student, so Jess came up to me and demanded that I tell her the truth, and I - “

“Sam,” Castiel leans toward him, arms outstretched like he wants to throttle Sam and the only thing stopping him is his next paycheck, “I’m not certain you understand the consequences of what you’ve just done. Miss Moore is a civilian. A civilian!”

“I know, I just-”

“If this gets out, she will be in as much danger as you if something should happen-”

For fuck’s sake- “I’m not in danger, Cas!” Sam slams his mug on the coffee table, hard enough to rattle his bones. “Nothing is going to happen to me! Give it a fucking rest!”

The silence is cutting. Castiel just stares at him, stares at him like Jess and Billie and everyone he’s ever known stares at him, blank and hard and just a little bit pitiful. It makes him want to die, makes him want to drive his fist into the wall until it splits, to see if maybe his blood will make them see him as an actual person.

“You know, now I have to interrogate her,” says Castiel, softly, firmly. “I have to determine whether or not she has extremist ties.”

“What? No.” Jessica didn’t sign up for that; that’s Sam’s bullshit to deal with, not hers. She shouldn’t have to get thrown in headfirst to the pit of secrets and surveillance that is his life. 

“Do not argue with me on this, sir,” Castiel warns, getting up from his seat. “We had a protocol in place should this unfortunate situation have come to pass.”

No. This argument is not over. He does not get to leave like that. “Cas,” Sam begs, “do not do this.”

“I have to. If you didn’t want this to happen, you shouldn’t have told her.” His hand clenches around the frame of the doorway to the kitchen. Sam can see his nails pulling at the paint on the wall. “Contact Miss Moore,” Castiel says darkly, looking away. “Tell her to come here at her earliest convenience. I have to do some damage control.” 

He rounds the corner into the kitchen. Sam waits for the sound of a fist in the wall that never comes. Somehow that’s even worse.

Palms sweaty, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, hands shaking.

***

Sam’s been sick to his stomach all day, waiting on any number of angry phone calls. Anna, Dean, Father; it would only take a single order from any one of them to yank Sam out of paradise and drag him back to Compbelle, kicking and screaming.

But the phone call never comes.

Instead, at precisely 5 PM, there’s a knock on the apartment door, short and sharp. Sam practically leaps up from the couch, sprinting to open it and nearly knocking Castiel over as he barrels through the kitchen. 

Though, as he reaches for the doorknob, he has to physically swallow some vomit. “Hey, Jess. Thanks for coming by.”

She hasn't even stepped over the threshold when she cuts him with a swift, “You’re not wearing your glasses.”

Oh. “Um. Right.” He nods. “They're, uh, not real.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, frowning. “Cool.”

He steps back, letting her into his apartment, smiling and hoping it doesn’t look like he’s grimacing. “So you found the place okay, then?”

She doesn’t smile back. “Yeah, it was fine. You’ve got a bus stop like a block away, so. It was fine.” 

“Cool, cool.” Like a bandaid, Sam. Just get it over with. “So. Hey. Welcome to the apartment.” He gestures her forward into the kitchen, where Castiel is making some coffee. “After you.”

She bumps him with her shoulder as she steps inside, something in the family of a grin attempting to make its way onto her face. “What, no castle?”

He laughs quietly, as much as he can while sick to death with nerves. God bless this girl. “Find me a castle in America.”

“Fair enough.”

“Anyway,” he mumbles, “um, Jess, this is Castiel, my roommate, and my - my bodyguard.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. She hangs back this time, one hand balled in the pocket of her sweater.

Castiel, with his sleeves rolled up, reaches out first for a handshake that she doesn’t meet. “It is very nice to meet you, Miss Moore, officially. I would like to apologize for my earlier subterfuge.”

She nods, lips pursed. “Thanks.”

The seconds pass, silently, Jess’ not-glare thick enough to choke somebody. Sam resists the urge to cough. “So, uh,” he says, one hand possibly gesturing to the kitchen table, “you know. Have a seat.” She doesn’t move, backed up against the kitchen cabinets. “Uh, hang here for a second, let me grab my…” He waves, backing up, slipping around the wall and darting to his room. 

Photos can be edited, documents can be forged, but there is only one thing that can verify his identity, and he hides it in his underwear drawer. Unoriginal, maybe, but secure all the same. Who would look for a signet ring in a pile of boxers, anyway? He snags it from its hiding place, way back in the corner, the metal cool against his hot, flushed skin. Oh boy.

The ring’s face is small, and colorless, but Sam knows his symbol better than the back of his hand. A red background, a gold chevron, and a crown of laurels - the House of Winchester’s victory and generosity, and Sam’s own wisdom, together in symbolic harmony. Allegedly. If he can ever learn when to keep his damn mouth shut.

Dean’s necklace gazes at him from its place of honor on his dresser, its face impassive. Dean wouldn’t be freaking out like this. Dean would be cool, calm, collected - totally in control. Then again, Dean would never have let this happen in the first place. Sam swallows. “Dear Lord,” he whispers, “give me my brother’s strength and dignity today, amen.”

The face doesn’t answer him, of course. But Sam does feel a little bit better.

“Here,” he says, striding back into the kitchen, holding out the ring, resisting the urge to crack a joke about getting married, bonded forever through shared secrecy. Time and place, Sam, time and place.

“Wow,” she takes it, weighing it in her palm. “It’s so light.”

Sam shrugs. “It’s mostly for show, you know? I’ve never used it. I don’t think my father has used his in, like, probably ten years.”

“Your father, the king,” she murmurs like she’s testing the words out in her mouth, examining seal. “I like the laurels.”

“Miss Moore,” Castiel very gently interjects, from his spot by the sink, “I understand that you must be overwhelmed by all of this new information. However, I must ask for your cooperation in a brief interview, of sorts, in order to ensure that you pose no threat to my client’s safety.” 

If she is surprised, she hides it well. “Is that why you called me here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam blurts, throat tight. 

“I as well,” chimes in Castiel, shooting a fleeting, unreadable look at Sam. “Unfortunately, this is a necessary precaution. I hope you understand.”

She nods. “I do. Hey,” she says, one half of her mouth curled up in something approaching a smile, reaching out to touch Sam’s elbow. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

“I just - are you sure?”

She purses her lips, scratches her neck. “Well.” She shrugs. “I have to prove that I’m safe if we’re going to keep being friends, right?” 

“I promise,” says Castiel, gently taking her by the elbow, leading her through the living room, “this will take no longer than half an hour. If you will please follow me, I have set up an office of sorts through here.” The door to Castiel’s room - usually closed, Sam realizes - is wide open, revealing the IKEA desk that was originally supposed to be for Sam, bare except for a lamp and a chair. “Excuse me, sir.”

Castiel closes his door behind him, and Sam is alone.

What to do, what to do. He could press himself up against the door, barely daring to breathe in hopes that he can hear their conversation, but that would be too much like his childhood. He could retreat to his room, slip on a pair of headphones and shut out the world, float in blissful nonexistence for the length of a Radiohead album, but that would be too much like boarding school. Instead, like any other college student, he goes and pours himself some of Cas’ coffee, curls up on the couch, and scrolls through his Twitter feed like nothing else is going on.

It gets to the point where he is refreshing his timeline every few seconds, desperately praying that there’s something new to read, some new bullshit thinkpiece he can waste his time on instead of constantly glancing at Castiel’s door, attempting to divine their conversation by staring at the wood, when he hears a muffled thump from inside the room, like someone smacking a table, and Jess’ voice, loud and upset, crying “No!” His phone nearly slips from his shaking hands and he can’t stand it anymore, can’t bear the shaking of his heart and the jittering of his legs, so he paces. Up and down, up and down, keeping pace with the thump of blood in his ears, he lets his legs carry out his fear for him, slowing his breath to slow his anxious mind. He can hear Hannah’s soft, melodious voice, as though she were sitting across from him right now, close but not that close. In for four, she would say, in for four, hold for two, out for four. He counts, head throbbing with every second, and tries not to imagine Castiel drilling a chip into Jessica’s skull, tries not to imagine him hypnotizing her, programming her until she’s just as fake and soulless as everyone else around him.

After a torturous twenty minutes, Castiel opens his door with a soft creak. “We’re all done, sir.”

Jess is hunched over at the desk, rubbing at her eyes. Sam rushes in, crouching down in front of her, hands fretting. Does he reach out and touch her? Does she even want to look at him? He settles for a soft “Hey,” craning his neck to catch her bowed gaze. 

“I will order us some pizza,” says Castiel behind him, stepping around the corner, out of his line of sight. The illusion of privacy. How nice of him.

“Are you okay?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just - “ sniffs, rubbing at her nose with her knuckles, “I wasn’t expecting this. Any of this. This is fucking crazy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Sam.”

“I never -” Great, now he's crying too, too choked up to soldier on, “I never wanted to put you through this. You’re amazing, you’re so smart and funny and amazing and I’m so sorry to bring you into all this shit. I just…” He sighs. “I just wanted to be your friend.” 

She swallows, breath shaky. “I - I have to use the bathroom. Sorry.”

Castiel’s bathroom is right there, but Sam figures she’d probably feel more comfortable in Sam’s. It’s bigger, too; perks of being a very important person. “I’ll be right outside if you need something, okay? Just give a yell.” She nods, shutting his door quietly.

As always, Castiel seems to just teleport to right behind him. “The pizza is on its way.”

Sam rounds on him, demanding, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing, sir,” says Castiel, hands held out. “We just talked.”

“Bullshit,” he spits, “you made her cry!”

“I will admit, things may have gotten intense, but I will not apologize.” And then Castiel crosses the line. He places his hands on Sam’s shoulders, stares him dead in the eyes, and all that Sam can see is someone who cares for Sam’s life - not his job, not Sam’s title, but Sam’s person. “My job is to protect you. And you may not always agree with my methods, or share my concerns, but I will not let up an inch until I know that the people around you are not a threat. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but -” He doesn’t care, God he just does not care, there are way more important questions to be asked here. “Does she pass? Can we stay friends?”

There’s a single, heartstopping moment where Sam thinks Castiel might say no, might send her away forever for daring to get too close to royalty, but Castiel just nods. “Yes. She’s a strong, intelligent, trustworthy person. I’m sure you two will be good for each other.”

Something about that comment rubs him the wrong way, but Sam still has one more burning question. “Are you - are you going to tell Anna?” 

Logically, Castiel should, and Sam wouldn’t blame him. But he knows, _he knows_ , the moment his father catches wind of Sam’s irresponsibility, then Sam’s time at Stanford will be quickly, forcefully, permanently over - the absolute worst possible outcome, and the most guaranteed.

Castiel shakes his head. “I won’t.”

“What?”

“I won’t tell the rest of my team, either.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re right, Sam. You deserve a chance at normalcy. And more than that, you deserve someone on the outside to share yourself with.” Castiel releases him, finally, but Sam can still feel the warm weight of his hands. “Just. Be careful.”

It’s another one of those too-good-to-be-true moments that he seems to be having a lot of, lately. But Sam won’t look this gift horse in the mouth, just flings himself at Castiel, hugging the man for all he’s worth. “Thank you,” he whispers, tongue heavy in his mouth, face buried in Castiel’s shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me, sir,” he says, patting Sam’s arms. “Just let me do my job as best I can.”

They untangle themselves after some time. Jessica emerges from the bathroom, finally, face clean and eyes dry. Their pizza arrives, and they eat quietly, Jess pressed up against his side as her curiosity gets the better of her, firing off question after question in between mouthfuls of cheese, and Sam answers each one freely, as Castiel smiles at them fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> paging dr. murphy
> 
> as always, one thousand thanks to the divine tumblr user kavkakt for her favor upon these works of mine :* i luv u girl
> 
> also who else hides stuff in their underwear drawers? i definitely do lmao


	8. Penny Drops

Sam’s hands clutching, chest heaving, he pants, open-mouthed. “It’s - ah - it’s too tight!”

“Just relax.” His hand skims down Sam’s side, fingers playing around the top of his pants. “I know you can do this.”

“I - hah - I - “

“Just a little bit more,” he quiets, fist clenched tight as he jerks it up, and up, and up, and - 

“Can’t breathe! Get it off!” The clasp is too tight for this to be done elegantly, and with discretion. Silently, Castiel apologizes to his employer. With one swift and decisive gesture, he grabs hold of the zipper and yanks it down, nearly pantsing his employer. Sam gasps like he’s been drowning, sucking in lungfuls of air. “Ow! Motherfu- what the hell kind of pants have a zipper in the back?” he snarls, clutching his stomach.

They are ridiculous, to be fair; long, skinny, black leggings that somehow have their proportions so off that they are long enough to match Sam’s inseam, but are clearly built for someone with a smaller waist. And, for whatever discernable reason, they have a zipper in the back. Jessica assured them that it would be covered by the costume’s accompanying green doublet, which is currently flung across the bed, but, looking at the length of it, Castiel remains doubtful. “Are you absolutely certain you’re not wearing them backwards?”

“Jesus Christ, no, Cas, I am not wearing them backwards. Jess!” He pokes his head around the corner, shouting to Miss Moore, who is changing in his bathroom. “How’s it going?” 

“Struggling! Give me five!” comes the muffled response, accompanied by some questionable grunting.

Palo Alto has been overrun with the Halloween spirit. Ghosts and vampires and all manner of holiday-appropriate creatures decorate every street and storefront, evil pumpkin art interspersed with ever-more flowery, elaborate sugar skull designs on the walls and windows. Stanford campus has exploded with holiday cheer as well; Sam, with tight smiles and half-hearted shrugs, has had to politely decline party invitation after party invitation, citing a lack of costume as his reason for not attending. With any luck, Castiel’s curfew petition will go through, but not in time for Halloween, unfortunately.

Though Miss Moore, in all her infinite wisdom, has come up with a handy solution - Sam is to be her date for the Cantor Art Center’s annual Halloween party, where the museum staff dress up as time periods represented by the museum’s various exhibits. Sam and Jessica will be representing medieval art, costumed as a princess and her knight, the clothing having been lovingly pilfered from the theater department by a nameless friend. Even Castiel has to admit they are frankly adorable. Though Sam seems to be less enthused than Castiel would have expected, if his muttering and grumbling is any indication. 

“So,” says Castiel, passively observing Sam fiddle with his waistband, rubbing at the tender skin, “I take it you’re not a fan of Halloween, then?”

Sam shrugs. “I guess. I mean, we’re more All Saints’ people, you know.”

Castiel himself hasn’t been to an All Saints’ service for many years, but then again, he’s not the one whose home is in the same acre as his country’s largest cathedral. “What about at school?”

Very interested in his pants, Sam focuses all his attention on stretching out the unyielding, unforgiving waist. “We’d have some parties and go out to pubs where there would be costume contests and stuff like that. I never really got the hype.”

“I see.” The Halloween frenzy hasn’t quite caught on in Sauville, like the rest of Europe, but Castiel would have thought Sam at least would have wanted to try out this particular tradition, as it practically reeks of normal. Although, he should have known better; the only regular American tradition Sam has been eager to experience is the one where he stays out all night in the campus library, cramming for a test.

“What?”

“Nothing, sir. Just an interesting observation.” 

If Sam’s raised eyebrow could speak, it would be dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yeah? What’s so interesting, then?”

“Are you ready to try again?” Castiel asks, gesturing to the offending costume bottom. They only have so much time before they have to leave in order to get there before everybody else. Without waiting for his response, he steps up to the plate, muttering a quick “pardon me, sir,” before settling his hands on Sam’s hips.

Beneath his fingers, Sam’s body is warm, nearly vibrating from the tension in his core as he sucks in his gut as deep as possible. He’s going to hurt himself like that. “Just make it quick,” Sam grumbles, face flushing in the overheated room. Castiel can’t recall their apartment having any heating or cooling issues, but it wouldn’t hurt to call in the landlord for a quick check up, just in case.

Their newest attempt at clothing Sam goes as smoothly as the previous, which is to say, not at all. Despite their best efforts, the pants are just as tight, and Sam is just as obstinate and obstreperous, squirming and wriggling and gasping. “Surely it can’t be that bad.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sam grunts, “you’re not getting strangled by Satan’s pants.”

While Sam wrestles with his zipper, Castiel takes the opportunity to knock on the bathroom door. “Miss Moore? I trust you’re faring better than we are?”

“You know, I can see why you’d think that,” she calls through the door, “but I don’t think so.”

“If we are to make it to the museum in time, and factoring in tonight’s traffic, we should leave in - “

With a mighty thud that nearly dents the bedroom wall, Miss Moore flings the door open, steaming fury pouring from every crevice, and nearly smacking Castiel square in the nose. “That’s it!” She snarls, hands clutching what is supposed to be a sweetheart neckline, but rides far too low for what is decent, practically swimming in pastel blue fabric. “There is no way I can salvage this costume.” The cheap polyester drags on the floor, a deadly trap waiting to happen, and the sleeves fall far past her fingers. Even the seam of the waistline is too low, hanging somewhere around her hips. It’s something of a disaster.

“Yeah, I don’t know what your friend was thinking, but this is way too small for me,” Sam says, still yanking on his waist band.

Dress too big, pants too small, next thing you know the museum will catch fire.

It’s then that Castiel catches Jessica’s eye as she hikes up the hem of her skirt. They exchange a perfectly silent moment, and by a sudden ray of divine inspiration, Castiel realizes that they have come to a similar conclusion. Castiel, being the consummate professional that he is, knows that he should stop this before she even suggests it, knows that his client will be made profoundly uncomfortable and not a little bit embarrassed. But. But. College is college, after all.

Sensing his quiet acquiescence, Jessica turns her eyes to Sam with a wide, feral grin. “I have an idea.”

***

Jessica is all toothy grins as she waves off the chair of the art department, who nearly laughed her head off at the sight of the two of them. “Thank you so much for coming!”

Sam does not. “I hate you so much.”

“Just smile.”

Unfortunately, the pastel blue of the dress does absolutely nothing to dull the red, flaming blush on Sam’s face. “And you, Mr. Bodyguard,” he hisses to his side, “aren’t you supposed to protect me from any and every possible threat?”

“Wearing a dress won’t kill you, sir,” says Castiel from his position as he observes a particularly gaudy Byzantine mosaic.

Sam snorts. “What if there’s an assassin? I could trip on my hem while trying to run away.”

“Then I’ll just have to carry you out over my shoulder while Miss Moore distracts your would-be murderer.”

If possible, Sam goes even redder, and Castiel successfully stifles his grin. Jessica, however, has no such compulsions, laughing brightly. “Oh, come on, Sam. It’s kind of funny. Besides,” she nudges him, smiling sweetly, “you’re basically a princess in real life, right? You’ve already got a castle, a royal S.U.V. carriage, your loyal knight - ”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Hey, I heard the comedy club has an opening tonight.” 

She smacks him with her plastic vambrace. “Alright, alright. You’ve done your part to make me look competent, so go wander around or something. I gotta check on the snacks.”

“Of course you look competent,” Sam calls after her as she trots away, arms flung as wide as the tight sleeves of his dress will let him, “you’re the one whose costume actually fits!”

Luckily, Castiel has years of mindfulness training and meditation to stop himself from bursting out laughing, but dear Lord is it difficult right now. Instead, he opts for offering an olive branch. “If you’d rather change now, sir,” he says, leaning in close to examine a gold corner, “I stashed some extra clothes in Miss Moore’s bag.”

“Um,” Sam shifts, shoulders flexing, “I’m fine. I mean, it’s fine. It’s just a little - tight in the arm.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He smiles tightly, dimples flashing for the barest second. “Don’t worry about it.”

Poor Sam. He’s certainly got the short end of the stick here. Even with his height, Castiel can still see the white of Sam’s socks as they stick out from under the dress. To add insult to injury, by some act of God, Miss Moore’s costume just so happened to fit near perfectly.

Truth be told, Castiel just counts himself lucky he got out of this one un-costumed and unscathed. Tonight, he is just another museum-goer in a sea of museum-goers, just someone who appreciates art as much as the next person. Regrettably, museum etiquette dictates a certain amount of space between patrons who are not together, but Castiel knows how to keep a sightline. Not that Sam makes it particularly difficult for him.

Sam merely wanders the museum halls as though it were a labyrinth, quietly, meditatively. Castiel is never more than one painting behind, tracing his path from medieval art, through African masks and Assyrian reliefs and Islamic tiles, hung on walls of inoffensive green and blue and red, until Sam stops in the middle of an exhibition on Russian realism on the second floor. The seconds tick on as Castiel struggles to hold position, but curiosity gets the better of him finally as he steps up to Sam’s side as he gazes up at a frame. They observe in silence the dark room of the painting, the pale lamp, the sorrowful faces. 

“ _Ninth Thermidor_ ,” Castiel reads, squinting at the tiny label. “By Valery Ivanovich Jacobi. Hmm.” 

“The arrest of Robespierre at the end of the Terror,” says Sam, his gaze trained on the prone body in the corner. “Did you know, the night before his execution, they kept him in the same cell as they had Marie Antoinette?” 

“I did not.” There is a beat of silence, then Castiel chuckles. “I never pegged you as a history buff, but I should have known.”

Sam shrugs. “Father made sure Dean and I knew everything there was to know about the French Revolution. It’s sort of our origin story, you know?”

“I am familiar.” Spurred on by their American allies and by the threat of violence in homeland, Sauville had successfully ejected itself from the kingdom of France shortly before revolution took over the mother country. The Compbelle family returned to its tiny, yet ancient seat of power in the northwest, and Sauville mostly escaped the clutches of the Terror, retaining both its Catholicism and its monarchy - with some democratic modifications, of course. Castiel himself recalls many a fond Le Partition celebration, complete with his brother’s tri-flavor French flag cake. 

With a quiet laugh, Sam tilts his head. “Robespierre, you know, he used to fascinate me. I used to think he was the perfect politician - he never changed his stance, never stopped trying to do what he thought was right by his people.”

Castiel swivels to look at him, one eyebrow raised so high it might as well have left the planet. He is less than charitable towards politicians on any given day - it always seems as though altruism is a concept they never could have dreamed up in their wildest fantasies - though he should have expected that, as a budding politician himself, Sam would go so far as to even have a favorite one. It still shocks him. “Really? Robespierre?”

“I mean,” Sam gestures, “he also facilitated mass panic and had a direct hand in thousands of needless executions. I don’t idolize him anymore. Obviously.” He shrugs. “I dunno. You know when he died he never even left any debts?”

“I see.” 

“Precise to the very end.” Sam sighs, shoulders heavy, gaze turning to the unfocused crush of people attempting to enter the subterranean chamber. “Why do you think they turned on him like that?”

The barb _Because Robespierre tried to make himself a god bubbles_ up in his throat, and Castiel almost can’t swallow it. It wouldn’t do to malign Sam’s childhood hero, no matter how what his own less-than-stellar opinion of politicians is. Silence reigns until Castiel summons his endless reserves of tact. “The people of France were afraid. They’d been suffering for years, and overnight their lives went from bad to worse. Fear can do terrible things to people.” A fact Castiel knows intimately. The ever familiar flash of fire, the hail of bullets, the heat of the desert sun flare up in his memory again. Like old friends, he welcomes them, breathes in the sense of smoke, then sends them away. Reality returns.

And the reality is that he’s been visibly speaking to Sam for far too long for someone who is supposed to be undercover; it’s time for a change-up. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he turns away, heading for the nearest corner to give his employer some privacy - until Sam grabs hold of his wrist.

“Cas… wait.”

Castiel frowns. “What is it?”

“I’m - “ He turns his face away, eyes downcast. “I’m afraid, too.” 

“Sam - “

“I try to hide it, but I’m sure you can tell.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut, takes a shivering breath. “I’m afraid of Vox. I don’t know what they want, I don’t know what I’ll do if they ever try something - on me, or Dean, or my father - and I’m afraid of that.” He shudders, then, the weight of truth pushing its way out of his body, into the death-like grip of Castiel’s wrist, and Castiel can feel it. He feels it as it drags its way through his nerves, thick and heavy like sludge, and Castiel can only respond with truth in kind.

Slowly, carefully, in the light of day and in the full sight of God, Castiel takes Sam’s hand, cradling it with his own. “Sam,” he says softly, “I promise you, as long as I am here, I will make sure that Vox, or anybody else, will never lay a finger on you.” Sam’s hand is soft and unburdened, like his heart, a quiet creature thrust into a cacophonous world, yet strong enough to wear a dress for the sake of a friend and to admit his most private fears, and it is in that moment that his heart throbs in a way that can only mean one thing. 

“What does Vox want with me?” Sam whispers, eyes wide. “Why are they doing this? If they’re trying to scare me, they’re doing a damn good job.” 

_No_ , Castiel thinks, _scaring you would be too simple_. If their goal had been that simple, they would have succeeded years ago. A terror campaign this long and enduring necessitates a much grander and loftier goal - something revolutionary. “Whatever it is they’re after,” he says, each word heavy, “I swear to you, they will not succeed. Not while I’m around.”

Sam’s tiny, trembling smile raises his spirits even as his stomach sinks, suspending his heart in the thick mass of creeping fear in his chest.

Castiel is in love, and he is well and truly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea what the stanford museum looks like, i'll be honest
> 
> https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Valery_Jacobi_Ninth_Thermidor.jpg the painting in question
> 
> once again, major major major thanks to tumblr user kavkakat for her many phenomenal suggestions and criticisms


	9. Festivus

Sam fidgets. He shifts in the seat of the car, taps his foot against the floor, huffs sighs until the window is fogged up from his breath. He checks the address for the eighth time. He swallows.

“Nervous?”

“No,” Sam scoffs.

Castiel hums.

Parked outside of Billie’s house, Sam wills the car door to open so he doesn’t have to do it himself. He prays for a hurricane to pick him up and deposit him outside of Billie’s door, and maybe give it a knock for good measure.

“We don’t have to go, sir.”

Sam shrugs.

Castiel goes to start the car, slowly enough for Sam to shoot out a hand and grab his wrist, stopping him. “Sir?”

“It’s just - “ Through the blinds of the house, Sam can see people puttering around, bumping shoulders and laughing, and he aches. “It’s just, Luis was live-tweeting his pie all day, and did you see the final picture?” Castiel shakes his head. “It was beautiful. The crust had leaves on it. And braids. Braids! Small ones!” 

“Impressive.”

“And all I have are these freaking - “ Sam flings his CVS bag, knocking it against the window in his frenzy, “crisps!” Never mind the fact that Luis has been cooking his entire life, and is planning on starting a restaurant with his business major after he graduates. With that kind of effort on the table, Sam should at least be able to bring something fancier than a bag of crisps. 

When Billie had invited him to her and new girlfriend Tessa’s end of exams mixer at their house, Sam had jumped at the chance for some nice, non-academic social interactions before he really processed what he was agreeing to. Before he knew it, he had been tasked with bringing a bag of chips, a bottle of wine, and a plus-one for the Drunk Wii Tennis tournament. Which Sam wants to do, obviously, considering that he’s skipped out on every single one of her Stanford Pride events for the last month and a half and that this is his last possible chance to get off his ass and out of the house before the campus vacates before Interterm. Except.

“Maybe we should head back.”

Castiel frowns. “May I ask why?”

“Well, I mean - “ Not for the first time, he figures his growing headache is definitely the product of the familiar-yet-annoying press of his glasses into his skull, and he kicks himself for even thinking about wearing a permanent disguise. What an idiotic movie. “It’s almost nine. We’re going to have to leave in like, an hour, to make curfew, so maybe we should just bag the whole thing.”

As much as he hates to admit it, he is oddly grateful for his father’s overbearing, paranoid protectiveness tonight. It makes the making of scary decisions a lot easier, takes the whole thing out of his hands and off of his shoulders. Even if it still leaves him a little empty afterwards, a thick, dark cocktail of anxiety, loneliness, and some serious FOMO.

“Curfew, huh?” Castiel asks in a singsong voice, the grit and gravel of his voice mysteriously absent. If Sam didn’t know any better, he would say Cas is teasing him, in a way that is kind of disturbing.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? My,” stupid, sucky, sometimes lifesaving, “curfew? That you are paid to enforce?”

Jaw clenching, lips pursed, brow furrowed, Castiel averts his eyes, slipping his phone out of his pocket and typing away. “Well, it just so happens that I received a very intriguing email today.”

Sam squints. “Uh huh.”

“An email I was going to save for later, to surprise you, but - ” Cas hands him his phone, eyes dancing. “Here.” 

It’s an email. From Anna, timestamped yesterday at eleven AM, which would be enough by itself to get his heart racing, were it not for the subject line, “RE: Curfew extension.” For a brief moment, Sam feels his dinner crawling back up through his throat, and he swallows, hard. Bizarrely, it’s like applying to college all over again, the same queasy, hopeful nausea, the same pounding heart, the same shaky hands. 

And, as it turns out, the same unbelievable joy. _‘Petition granted. Charlie Team curfew extended to - ‘_ Sam’s jaw drops. “One AM?”

“Effective immediately.”

“I - you - “ Sam sputters, unable to contain the smile that splits his face in half. “How?” 

Castiel blinks, head tilted. “How what?”

How did you move a mountain? How did you part the seas? “How - how did you manage this? I thought - “

“Well, it wasn’t easy,” he admits, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I had to do a lot of haggling before it could even get past Anna. But,” he turns to Sam, his blue eyes so not serious and grave that it’s like Sam’s never even seen them before. “Once I had convinced her that you were safe enough, the rest was simple.” He smiles, then, soft and fond. “Happy early Christmas.”

Sam can’t breathe, but there’s no fear. His hands don’t shake and his blood isn’t racing. “I don’t know what to say. This is.” He shakes his head, vision fogging. “This means so much to me.”

A gentle hand finds its way to his shoulder. “It was my pleasure, sir,” murmurs Castiel, squeezing lightly.

The silence that descends isn’t at all like the one he’s used to. Sam knows all too well the silence of an empty castle, cold and crushing and haunting. Ever since he left for school, he needed some kind of white noise to fill the quiet time, whether he’s studying or falling asleep, and it’s not like Hannah or Cas are exactly talkative. But despite the chill outside, Sam is warm, strangely enough - almost cozy. It’s kind of like the first time he ever drank champagne, the night before Dean left for Paris; a quiet warmth that blooms in his stomach, growing through his throat and blossoming in his brain, a blanket to keep the fear away.

It’s been so long since he’s been happy - really, actually, happy - that Sam almost doesn’t recognize the feeling.

“Shall we?” Asks Castiel, and Sam nods.

They’ve dallied in the car so long that the party is already in full swing by the time they walk in the door; Luis is loudly and slowly connecting some Wii controllers that have clearly seen better days, Brady is holding court with the rest of the freshmen pre-meds at the kitchen-counter turned bar, and, judging by the number of discarded cups and cans, they’ve already made a pretty decent dent into the alcohol supply by the time they notice Sam and Cas.

“Sam!” A kid from his French class calls out, saluting with a beer bottle. Sam waves back, and all of a sudden it’s open season on him as everyone rushes to greet him.

“Hey, Sam!”

“What’s up, man?”

“Sam, hi!”

The crowd welcomes him, wraps him in an unassuming and unpretentious camaraderie, and Sam kind of wants to cry. Just a little. Smiling hard, face aching, he happily accepts whatever craft beer Brady hands him, curling himself comfortably in the crook of the couch. There’s a beat before Castiel follows him down, knocking knees as he settles down next to him, shooting him a vaguely impenetrable look that Sam can only respond to with a blink. 

Cas has been doing that a lot, lately, staring at him intensely. Well, the staring isn’t new - Sam’s pretty sure that if Castiel and Anna ever had a staring contest, the sun would reach heat death before one of them gave in. But there’s definitely something different about the concentration and the energy of it. He can feel Cas’ gaze, warm and electrifying on the back of his neck, whether they’re eating or working or on the way to school, and whenever he turns back, Cas never looks away.

It’s not uncomfortable, per se. Just new.

Actually, about an hour into the party, Sam finds he kind of misses it. It’s not that he’s bored, or lonely, or lacking in conversation partners. He’s deep into a story with Max, a junior English major who has been regaling him with an amazingly hysterical story of his family’s brief stint with Wiccanism, before he realizes that, for what might be the first time ever, Castiel’s eyes aren’t fixed on him. He’s still there on the couch, of course - a quick glance behind him confirms that - but it’s so disconcertingly normal and un-bodyguard-like that it throws Sam for a massive loop.

Thankfully, even though Sam feels a little twinge of loss, Max’s sister drags his attention away, loudly denying his accusations and looking for all the world like she’s about to start the biggest tickle fight of all time, when Sam takes the opportunity to turn back to Cas, who is currently engaged in a seriously heated discussion with Tessa about the merits of different camera brands. 

“Hey,” He taps Castiel on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go grab a drink, do you want anything?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, I’m alright.”

“Okay. Back in a few.” His bodyguard nods, then goes right back to his conversation. Sam tries not to feel passed over. He figures he can tease Cas for ignoring royalty later.

He sidesteps the makeshift bar for the moment, instead making a beeline for the fridge where he knows there are a couple of cokes that escaped their fate as mixers. At the kitchen table, Billie and a handful of other Polisci majors that Sam knows, are all huddled around Billie’s tablet. Tinny and canned, from the speakers comes a voice, saying, _“...And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you - ask what you can do for your country.”_

Billie nods, enraptured. Behinder her, some guy murmurs a soft “yass” as he snaps his fingers. Even though he’s more than unfamiliar with American history, even Sam can recognize JFK’s inaugural speech when he hears it. _“...Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us here the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.”_ The video ends, and all the Polisci kids sigh with something like longing.

“Now don’t tell me that didn’t just knock your goddamn socks off,” says Billie, smug and satisfied.

“Alright, alright.”

“Ooh, do ‘We chose to go to the moon’ next!”

“Sam,” ask a kid in the group - Andy or Ansem or something like that, “what’s your favorite political speech?”

Sam blinks. “Huh?”

“We’re trying to decide who’s favorite is best. So what’s yours?

Like one hivemind creature, all heads swivel to him, and suddenly, Sam cannot remember a single speech he’s ever studied. “Um. Uh.” Think, man! Think! “Um. Alexander the Great’s speech during the conquest of India.”

“Lame.” Whoever says that gets a gentle smack. Sam blushes.

“Has to be mid-20th century or later,” says Billie, “and has to be from your country of origin.”

“And no doubles!” pipes up a kid from the back.

“So your country is Sauville right?” asks Billie. Sam nods. “Favorite speech from King John.”

Oh. “King, uh, John?”

“Or Prince Dean. Either one.”

It’s like he’s been hit by a lightning bolt of profound irony. The surreality of the moment completely overwhelms him, and despite the fact that he probably has memorized every speech his father and brother have ever made, including any and all drafts, the shock has pretty much rendered him utterly speechless, reeling from an intangible punch to the fucking face. He’s aware that he’s been quiet for too long, and that everyone is waiting for him to speak up, and yet, all he wants to do is laugh until his entire corporeal being evaporates into the air, and his disembodied laughter haunts Stanford for the rest of eternity.

If there is a God, he’s got a fucking bizarre sense of humor.

“What about Prince Dean’s school speech?” asks somebody, ostensibly to save Sam from his alleged shyness. “That one’s pretty cool.”

Billie’s already pulled it up by the time Sam gains enough control of his feet to walk around the table to watch the screen. There’s Dean, his brother, in glorious HD, on the steps of his childhood home, every inch poised and put together and not nearly as tired and nervous as he had been a few hours before. He hadn’t slept all night, and come breakfast Sam had found him nearly face-planting into his oatmeal from exhaustion. Only by breaking into his father’s secret stash of Turkish coffee - a gift from the Turkish president himself - did Sam manage to get Dean awake and alert enough to help him finish the final draft of his speech. By the end of the day, he had drunk so much coffee that you could still smell it on him almost a week later, no matter how hard he tried to cover it with his gross, “manly” cologne.

The memory never fails to make him smile. Even now, he’s hard-pressed to keep the smile off his face, watching his brother introduce himself to the country. _“...I have learned that to hide yourself from the world is to do yourself a great disservice,”_ says the recording, _“for at this very moment, somewhere in the world are those who will irrevocably change your life for the better. And so, even as I thank you for the courtesy and respect you have shown my family these last ten years, I am thrilled to begin the next chapter of my life with you all, at the University of Paris.”_

How right he was. “You know,” says Sam, with another surge of that reckless bravery he sometimes has, “I was there.”

Billie gasps. “No way!”

“Seriously? What was it like?”

“Are you in the video?”

“Did you get to meet Prince Dean?”

“What’s he like?”

“Is he that hot in real life or is it all photoshop?”

Um, ew. “I mean,” Sam shrugs, “I’ve heard he can be kind of a tool.” Understatement of the year. “But yeah. It was cool to see him live.” Of course, Sam hadn’t actually been in the crowd. He’d been watching it on TV, even though Dean was literally speaking at his front door.

Oh Dean. He misses Dean so much.

“Alright,” someone says, “you promised me ‘We chose to go to space’ like ten minutes ago and I wanna see it!”

And so it goes, as Sam gets swept up in the Youtube rabbit hole, listening to speech after speech after speech, until, with a swooping jolt in his stomach, he realizes that it’s been almost forty minutes since he told Cas he was coming right back. He can almost imagine the sirens as the National Guard beats the door down, and Anna flying in, guns blazing, before she smoke bombs the entire room and knocks Sam out, lugging his sorry ass all the way back to Europe for ditching his security detail. “Oh, shit.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just - I just remembered that my brother wanted me to call him, like, half an hour ago. I’m gonna - be back in a sec.” Or never. Sam dashes to the living room, apology springing to his mind fully formed, where he finds Castiel. Where Cas is. Cas is. 

Castiel is playing Wii Tennis. He’s facing off some girl in a blond pixie cut, and she is kicking his ass. He loses spectacularly, to the combined cheers and groans of the room at large. Smiling, he hands off his remote to the next person, and is about to drop back down on the couch before he catches sight of Sam. He’s been working on his casual persona, but Sam can still see the glint in his eyes as he shifts from nonchalant to heightened awareness, edging around the crowd at Sam’s beckoning.

Sam leads him away from the world, convening in front of a back bathroom. “Is everything alright, sir?” asks Castiel, concerned.

“Yeah, it’s just.” Bizarrely, he feels the need to touch Cas, to make sure it’s really him, that he hasn’t gotten swept up in some fantasy world where everything goes his way and nothing goes wrong. “I told you that I was going to get a drink, and I was in there for like half an hour.”

Castiel nods. “Yes.”

“But, I said I’d be right back.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But,” Sam gestures lamely, searching for a fear he can’t describe, “I was gone for a long time.”

“Yes, you were, but,” Castiel shrugs, “I just assumed you had gotten into a conversation.”

It’s the simplicity in the way he says it that knocks him out of his anxiety, brings him back into the real world. “Oh.”

Castiel frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Nothing! I just - “ Sam’s face is on fire, embarrassed at having dragged Cas away from the party, where he was having actual fun, for no reason at all, just to have to deal with Sam’s paranoid, anxious ass, when instead they could be both living real, actual lives for once.

“Sir, if you feel unsafe, my advice would be to - “

“No, I’m not - it was just. Weird. I’m so used to having you around, the minute I realized you weren’t there, I sort of,” Sam looks down, scratches his neck, “you know, panicked.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Castiel, gravely.

“No, it’s okay.” Dragging his gaze to meet Cas’, there’s no judgement, or seriousness, only a soft worry and a tender concern, and something else that Sam can’t quite parse out.

“I just thought that you might appreciate being left alone for a while.”

Sam bets that Dean has never had this problem with Anna. Dean needs people; he thrives on company and crowds, while Sam needs to be alone. Dean has a constant companion, while Sam has a constant shadow. But for a brief, wonderful moment, his shadow made up its own mind, and let Sam be by himself, let him be free. He has his arms around Cas before he really realizes it, cheek pressed up against the firm line of Castiel’s neck as he struggles not to cry.

Whatever good he did in a past life, whatever God decided to give Sam someone who understands him like this, Sam knows that he will never, ever, be this lucky again, and he is so, unbelievably grateful. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice thick.

Castiel, stiff as a board, pats Sam on the shoulder. “Of course, sir.”

Sam pulls away, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m just gonna,” he points to the conveniently placed bathroom, hoping Cas will get the hint without having to explain himself. With a nod, Castiel turns on his heel, marching back to the living room, to the cheering students and the real world.

When Sam musters up the courage to head back, drunk Wii Tennis is in full swing. The girl who beat Cas is still the reigning champion, though that probably has more to do with the fact that she’s switched to water at this point, while her opponents are still gulping down Brady’s homemade “riot punch,” whatever that is. Without a word, Sam joins Cas on the couch, knocking his elbow. He’s fine. He’s more than fine. They’re all alright.

At the end of the night, the girl with the pixie cut is crowned Wii Tennis champion, although Sam dozed his way through the mock ceremony. “Sam?” asks Cas with a gentle shake.

“Mm.”

“Ready to head out?”

Sam nods. “Think so.” He yawns, stretching. “Time is it?”

“Just around midnight.” Cas’ voice is so soothing like this, when it’s soft and quiet. It’s like the sound of the gentle rain outside the window on a summer’s night in Sauville, when Sam was a child, cozy and safe and wrapped up in his blankets, and Sam has to fight the urge to go back to sleep, rubbing his eyes and pulling himself up.

The crowd sees him out, a wave of camaraderie and good vibes. “Bye, Sam!” 

“Merry Christmas!”

“See you next semester!”

Smiling, content, Sam falls asleep on the way home, and his dreams are peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience, i was dealing with some health junk over christmas, but i am better now
> 
> to show your appreciation, please go to tumblr user kavkakat and shower her with praise and thanks for her inestimable and integral help


	10. Reality Ensues

_Sam has a smile that’s just for him. He’s tight-lipped with his fellow students, smiles small when Jessica laughs, but there’s a smile that Castiel sees only when it is lavished on him. Bright and joyful, it glimmers like the sun off of the ocean, lighting up the darkness around them, and Castiel thinks that he wouldn’t at all mind going blind from the sight of it._

_It’s bestowed entirely upon him right now, tinged with a rosy shyness from the tips of his ears to the top of his bare chest as he lays in the vivid green of the grass. He ducks his head, dimples carved into the hollows of his cheeks, and Castiel gently tips his chin up, laying a soft kiss to the skin under his eyes. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, “you’re safe with me.”_

_“I know,” Sam whispers, breath like a summer breeze. Luminous, he glances towards the night sky, eyes dark. “I’m safe with you.”_

_Cupping his smooth cheek, Castiel kisses him deeply, leisurely. Sam tastes of coffee and cinnamon, honey and skin. Then he tastes wet copper._

_He pulls back, a question in his throat which dies at the sight of Sam, his precious charge, lips wet and red. Castiel brushes his cheek, the delicate touch leaving a smear of liquid crimson in its wake, even as Sam smiles, crystal mouth muddied with blood, and ardently he sighs, reaching for Castiel, “I’m always safe with you.”_

_With a roar of of thunder, he shatters, slim hands crumbling piece by piece like a mighty ruin, buffeted by the winds of time, limbs turning to dust, until all that is left of his sovereign’s second son is his dark eyes, full and shining, twin suns in a harsh, empty sky, parching the land until all that surrounds him is the sand of the eternal desert, and there’s blood in the mud that covers Castiel’s hands, caking under his fingernails and on his skin and in his veins, and no matter how hard furiously he scrubs or how desperately he prays he’ll never be free of the sightless gazes that follow him into desert darkness -_

_There’s a sound like lightning behind him, and a flash of heartbeat-thunder, as a force of wind strikes and stripes his back and sends him flying -_

_There’s a hand in the rubble, limp fingers frozen in an eternal reaching grasp, a noise like a dying animal ringing in his ears and burning in his throat -_

And then there’s the weak sunlight through the curtains, and the gentle buzzing of his alarm, and the damp chill of his pillow.

Castiel scrubs a hand through his hair, breath shaky, as if he could dislodge the familiar feeling of yet another damn nightmare. He had gotten used to the feeling of sleeping easy, gently shepherded along into unconsciousness by nicotine or Zoloft - he hasn’t slept this poorly in years, not since the end of his most recent tour of duty. If he were were a more foolish man, the sudden increase of night terrors would concern him; as it is, Castiel knows himself far too well to imagine that it has to do with anything but his newly intensified concern for the sleeping child in the room next door.

Ava, his previous client, never inspired such feelings in him. Nor did Jacob, or Ansem, or any of his other assignments. Castiel sighs; damn this boy. 

Still, it’s Christmas morning - Sam’s first one away from home, he confided, smiling but eyes sad - and despite how Castiel longs to continue laying in bed with the covers pulled over his eyes until his heart can stop racing, he has an itinerary to keep and a client to fill with holiday cheer. With a dull thud, his feet strike the carpeted floor, soft and warm, his body arching as he stretches, joints cracking like a ripple from his head to his toes.

When he was very young, Christmas always began at night. After midnight mass, his mother’s best attempt at a reveillon breakfast would take them well into the morning, followed by a second mass at dawn - sometimes even a third, if his mother insisted - then, before the afternoon nap the whole family would be settled around their aging television to watch King John’s Christmas message. A tradition lovingly pilfered from the Windsors, Castiel’s mother insisted on watching it, despite her family’s pleas for rest. Even back then, before Queen Mary had fallen ill, Sauville’s ruling family were extraordinarily private, and any glimpse of their personal lives was more than enough to fuel an entire year’s worth of gossip. 

After his mother passed, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to listen to pontificating priests anymore, but he still tuned into the Christmas message. No matter where he was - Compbelle, Mosul, St. Petersburg - he always had the king’s words to bring him home to his memories. Watching the Christmas message with the king’s son should be one hell of an experience. If only Castiel’s mother were here to see this; she would be beside herself with envy.

By the time he wraps up his daily chores - collecting the various coffee mugs which have been strewed about the apartment and dumping them in the sink, reviewing the night’s security footage in his office, checking in with the rest of his team - the sun is well above his window, and Sam has still not emerged from “the cave,” as it has been unceremoniously dubbed, given Sam’s preference for having his blinds drawn at all time, effectively blocking out any and all sunlight so that Sam may sleep as late as he possibly can. Of course, this bothers Castiel’s deputy to no end, but at least now Mourand has downgraded his number of daily check-ins from several frantic texts whenever Sam leaves the living room to only one or two a day.

As if summoned by the mere thought of him, Castiel’s phone buzzes. _No visual on subj, confirm._

_ATP, lvl 3._

They’ve been at this for so long, even their shorthand has shorthand, which is why Castiel is surprised to see a full-length response. _Happy Christmas, CL._

Castiel surprises himself by smiling. Who knew his serious, by-the-book deputy had a sense of holiday spirit.

He texts back, _Happy Christmas, Ezekiel._

“ _Coming up next_ ,” announces the television, faintly, “ _the king’s Christmas message._ ” Castiel opens his door to an empty living room, and he frowns. Surely Sam wouldn’t want to miss this. “ _Et puis_ ,” the broadcast echoes, “ _le message annuel de Noël,_ ” as Castiel knocks on Sam’s door.

“Sam!” He calls. “Are you ready?” 

He gets no answer, save for a soft rustling of sheets. Castiel knocks again, louder. “Sam? Are you up?” There’s a muffled thump, like something phenomenally solid striking the wall, but no response. 

Sam always answers. Castiel has trained him to answer. He has to answer, that’s how this works. Castiel opens the door with a decisive turn of the wrist, right hand automatically reaching for his gun - his fingers brush nothing and he remembers that he left his gun in his own room - there’s no time, he has to get in there - hand preemptively curled into a fist, he shoves the door open with his shoulder, flings it wide and barges into the room, when -

“Fuck!” Sam shrieks from the bed, yanking at his blanket, face flushed, knocking over a box of tissues onto the floor in his haste. “Out! Please!” Castiel sees a flash of a bare thigh, a gentle taper to a sharp hipbone and a lithe waist, and - “Cas!” Sam barks. 

He snaps his eyes shut, mostly so that he doesn’t try to gouge them out. His jaw hangs open still, gaping and gawking, but he can’t catch his train of thought quick enough to utter anything except a stammered, fractured apology. “M-m-my - your - I am s-so - “

“Please!”

He moves like shutter-flashes: the door closes, the living room becomes the kitchen, and there is water boiling on the stove before Castiel recognizes that he has done these things. He tries to clear his head, tries to grasp the flow of thought and wrangle it into submission under the sound of the whistling kettle, but all the white noise in the world won’t be able to drown out the image of Sam of Winchester, prince to the throne of Sauville, wide-eyed and breathless, naked and flushing.

“God dammit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. Sam is still there, in the phosphenes; broad shoulders, skinny waist, smooth skin. “God dammit.”

From the living room, the pleasant, stately orchestral hymn of the Sauveilleian national anthem booms like a bullet from a gun, knocking him back into reality. Nearly tripping over the kitchen chair, he rushes to the TV, before he is stopped dead in his tracks by the face of King John, his employer, eyes steely and shrewd. “ _Good evening, all,_ ” he says, deep voice booming. “ _At this time of year, few things warm my heart so well and so fully as the sight of our families and neighbors celebrating the gift of each other’s presence in our lives. In these troubled times, it is with our families, whether they be biological or otherwise, whether they are close to us or are scattered across the wide world -_ “

Fingers fumbling for the power button, he shuts the TV off. Even halfway across the globe, Castiel can feel his stare, penetrating his soul and finding him lacking. He shudders, a familiar cocktail of shame and nausea leaching from the pit of his stomach.

His phone vibrates, “Dean Winchester” flashing across the small screen. It’s as though Castiel’s accidental act of perversion echoed around the world, right into the ears of the king and his fully armed, private security force. 

Heart in his throat, he accepts the call, gingerly bringing it up to his ear. “Hello - ”

“ _Cas, where’s Sam?”_

Castiel blinks. “He’s - he’s in his room - “

" _Are you sure? He's not picking up his phone -_ "

"Sir, Sam is perfectly safe - " Castiel says, trying to swallow around the lie.

“ _Put him on, right now,_ ” Dean barks.

For the second time that morning, Castiel knocks on Sam’s door, though this time he swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat. “Sa-” he coughs, choking on the informality. “Sir,” he amends, “may I come in?”

Sam answers immediately this time, fully clothed and bundled up, face as deep red as his Stanford sweatshirt, and Castiel blushes in kind, shame multiplying tenfold. “Um,” he mumbles, eyes fixed on Castiel’s shoes, and his heart breaks a little to see Sam so obviously uncomfortable with him. “Yes?”

“It’s your brother,” Castiel says, holding out his phone.

Studiously avoiding his gaze, making absolutely sure his fingers do not graze Castiel’s in any manner, Sam brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?” The blush fades from his face as he frowns, pulling his head up. “Slow down - what? No, I didn’t catch the broadcast, I was…” 

Sam goes very still. His spine stiffens, knuckles white as he clutches at the phone, even his breath has stopped, and in that desperate, crystalline moment, Castiel can see deep, true despair in his eyes.

He thrusts the phone at Castiel, shoving him aside as he races to the television set. “Sir,” he splutters, “what is going on?”

“ _You have to believe me,_ ” says Dean, tinny and canned and loud enough even for Castiel to hear, “ _I had no idea he was going to do this, he went completely off-script, we - we were going to tell you first, Sammy - I swear!_ ”

Sam does not hear them, eyes fixed to the screen, fingers trembling as he switches it on. “ _\- no reports of any other injuries._ ” The reporter turns to the camera, then, and seems to be speaking to Sam directly, words of doom falling from her lips. “ _Moments ago, during his Christmas message, King John announced that he will abdicate the throne of Sauville, due to failing health, passing it on to his eldest son, Dean. His Majesty was diagnosed with liver cancer earlier this year, as he revealed in his speech, and declared it to be a fortunate omen of change._ ”

“ _Therefore,_ ” John announces in the provided clip, “ _it is my solemn duty to tell you that the time has come for me to step down. Yet, it also gives me great joy to say to announce that Dean, my son, has agreed to take my place in the long line of our history, just as I did many years ago._ ”

He sinks to the floor, knees striking wood, and Castiel is at Sam’s side in an instant, phone forgotten on the couch. “ _Sam?_ ” Dean calls, frantic. “ _Sam? Are you okay? Sam!_ ”

Sam’s chest heaves with great, wracking breaths, eyes wide and wet and turned to the ceiling. “Oh God,” he whispers, “oh God,” and he shudders like a localized earthquake, arms wrapped around himself. “Oh God.”

And Castiel can only bear witness to his struggle, can only echo his pleas, but he can not reach out to comfort him. He never can again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy dick on a stick, it's not dead!
> 
> suffice to say, it has been one eventful-ass year. hopefully the coming one will be less exciting.
> 
> a million thanks to tumblr user kavkakat for the staunch support and endless patience. and a million thanks to you, dear readers, for the same!


	11. So Far Away

A knock on the door. Sam pulls the covers over his head.

It could be minutes, or hours, or even days for all Sam gives a fuck, before he hears another knock. “Sir,” comes the muffled voice of his bodyguard. “There’s dinner ready, if you feel up to it.”

The idea of food makes his stomach turn, so he says nothing. 

“Sir,” Castiel says through the door. “It’s been two days.” Sam turns his face further into the pillow. “You have to eat something.” Dean calls, the screen blinking gently at him. 

Sam ignores them both, keeps his mouth shut and swipes left to ignore. Instead, he decides to make himself feel even worse by checking Twitter. Again.

His feed right now is a constant, unending echo chamber: #DeanWinchester is trending a mile a minute, every other tweet a picture of his handsome, smiling face as he shakes hands with ministers, or leaves church on Sundays, or goes out to get a fucking coffee, captioned with whatever quote from the Times, or the BBC, or whatever the hell people need to figure him out, judge him and condemn him without ever knowing him, and for one sharp, spiky moment, Sam hates his brother for allowing this to happen. Sam truly, violently, hates him, even more than he hates their father. It’s a vicious hate, seething and hot as he swallows back both bile and tears, one that he’s never felt towards his best friend. It’s just a little bit liberating.

Dean calls again. Sam lets it go to voicemail.

Then Dean texts him.  _ Sam I s2g if you don’t call me right now I am sending the royal guard to drag you out of there ass first.  _ And then another.  _ I mean it! _ And then a third.  _ Im literally about to call them _ .

He considers calling Dean’s bluff. Dean would probably hem and haw for a few days, blustering and fretting, worrying over his precious little Sammy, all the way in scary California, unable to choose whether or not to actually pull the trigger and do it. Or, he could tap into that iron will that the New York Times claims he has, scramble the guard and make good on his promise to extract him, publicly humiliating him and the entire royal family of Sauville by letting Sam carry out his tantrum in front of the whole goddamn world.

Or Sam could just do it himself. Jump the gun, come out right now - he could do a stream on Facebook Live, specifically because Dean hates it so much - just to shove it in Dean’s face. And his father’s. And everyone else who thinks that they know him, who decided he wasn’t strong enough to handle whatever it was they were scared of. 

But all the hassle probably isn’t worth Sam’s pride, so he picks up the phone, and calls his brother.

“ _ Sam! _ ” Dean gasps, relief clear as day even over the phone, “ _ thank fucking God, I was so worried about you! You know the rules - no radio silence! What were you thinking? Not to mention Castiel’s been telling me that you haven’t been eating, you haven’t come out of your room - what the hell, man? _ ”

Sam closes his eyes, keeping his mouth shut.

“ _Sam?_ ” he asks. “ _Sammy?_ ” Sam smiles, tight lipped, even though no one can see it. “ _Oh, come on. Seriously? You’re gonna give me the silent treatment now? What are you, twelve?_ ” He sighs, crackling over the speaker. “ _Fine. I’ll play your game._ _You know, you think you're being funny, but you're being really really childish!_ ” His jaw clenches, retort caught in his throat before he lets it escape and ruin this whole pissed-off shtick he’s got going on. “ _Sam Winchester wears makeup,_ ” Dean sing-songs, and Sam can feel his eyebrow twitching. “ _Sam Winchester cries his way through sex! Sam Winchester keeps a ruler by the bed, and every morning when he wakes up he -_ “

“Oh my God, Dean, what the hell do you want?” 

“ _ To make sure you’re not dead, moron! _ ”

“Fine,” he sneers, “you got what you came for. You done?”

“ _ Not even close _ ,” Dean growls. “ _ Little early for fasting and penance, don’t you think? _ ”

“Well, gee, finding out on national fucking television that my father has cancer sure feels like an act of an angry God.”

“ _ I swear to you, I had no idea he was going to do that _ ,” he says, placating, as if that will stop Sam from reading in between the lines.

“So you knew?”

Dean pauses, long enough for Sam to fill in the blanks. “ _ Yes, I knew _ .”

“How long?”   


“ _ Since July. _ ”

July. Six months. Six months Sam’s father was dying, and he only finds out about it now. A shock of cold zips through his heart to his toes, anger mixed with nausea. “Is there a fucking reason,” he bites out, heart beating out of his chest, “that nobody thought to tell me?” Because this might be the cruelest thing that John Winchester has ever done, sending him halfway across the world to hide him away and keep him at arm’s length so he won’t get in away of whatever bullshit is going on at home.

“ _ He asked me not to.”  _

And Sam wants to scream. “Why?” he asks instead, eyes wet.

“ _ Do you know how proud he was of you, when you got into Stanford? He couldn’t stop talking about it for months. And since he couldn’t actually tell anyone because of national security, he just told me. Over and over and over again. _ ” Dean sighs, and Sam can almost see him rubbing at his mouth, like he only does when he’s being serious. “ _ Going to America, getting out here, that was your dream for years, Sammy. Father knew that if he told you about his diagnosis, you’d give that up to stay here, with him, and he didn’t want to be the one to take that away from you. _ ”

There’s a tremor in his bones, shaking its way through his system, doing its best to tear him apart from the inside out. “How is he?” Sam asks, mouth dry.

“ _ Still kicking! _ ” Dean says, cheerily. “ _ Lording about the place, as usual. He’s about to start a second round of chemo, but other than that, he’s doing just fine. _ ”

A second round of chemo. God. “And how are you?” he chokes out.

Dean blows out a breath, tinny and broken over the line. “ _ Honestly, kiddo, I wanna fucking kill myself, but I just can’t find any time in my schedule. _ ” Sam can hear a sudden cascade of voices in the background, clamoring for his brother’s attention. “ _ Listen, Sam, I have to -  _ “

“It’s okay, I’m okay,” he really isn’t, “you can go.” But if Dean keeps talking, Sam’s going to start crying, and then Dean will be really worried.

“ _ Are you sure? Like, a hundred percent? Because if Castiel tells me you haven’t been eating again, I swear to fucking God -  _ “

“I promise I’ll eat. Listen,” he clambers out of bed, limbs stiff, and shambles towards the door, “I’m getting up right now, I’m - hey Cas?” he calls, opening the door wide.

Castiel snaps to attention. “Sir.”

“Could we get some pizza, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

“There, Dean. You hear that? Food is on the way.”

Dean hums, unconvinced. “ _ You know you can call me anytime, right? Forget the time difference. If you need me, you  _ call  _ me okay? No more self-imposed martyrdom. Promise? _ ”

“Promise.” 

“ _Okay. Be safe, Sammy._ ” Then he pauses, and says, “ _Love you._ ”

Phrases like “love you” are spoken so seldom in their family that Sam is taken aback for a second, and before he can respond with a quick “you too,” Dean hangs up. If Dean’s goal were to keep him from worrying too much, he has definitely failed.

“Sir,” says Castiel, stilted and hesitant, and something in Sam aches for the easy-going rapport they’d built together that was unforgivingly vaporized by reality, “I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

Sam bites his cheek, something hot rising in his throat. “Thanks.”

“On behalf of my family, please accept our condolences - “

“Thanks, Cas,“ Sam says, hoping that Castiel can read between the lines and fucking drop it. 

A long moment passes in loud silence. Castiel frowns, eyes narrow, as he seems to grow taller, exuding a frustration that Sam can only guess has all to do with how he is handling this. Great. Now even Castiel thinks he’s a useless disappointment who can’t be trusted with shit.

“Why don’t you have a seat, sir,” he asks, gesturing to the couch, in a way that doesn’t quite allow for Sam’s refusal. 

Still, who would he be if he didn’t at least try? “If it’s all the same to you, Cas, I’d rather just go back to bed - “

“Sit down.” 

Sam crosses the room, sits, and quietly tries not to think of the word “meek.”

Castiel looms over him, or maybe Sam shrinks, crumbling under the weight of his gaze, heartbeat in his throat, ears hot. “I understand, sir, that this is a stressful time,” he says, and Sam doesn’t even have it in him to snort at the understatement, “but I will not let this continue. Now you are going to sit there until the pizza arrives, and then you will eat until I have decided that you have had enough, do I make myself clear?” Sam can’t bring himself to look him in the eye, so he stares at the floor and nods, hoping that will satisfy.

“Good,” Castiel says, and something in Sam trembles. “I’m going to make us some tea. I’ll only be a moment.” 

Time disappears as Sam sits, listening to the quiet sounds of Castiel closing the blinds, and  puttering about the kitchen. He can’t even pass the time by fidgeting, compelled to stillness by his eternal need to prove everybody wrong. Castiel is disappointed in him, thinks that he’ll break and hide in his room again? Fine. Sam won’t even fucking blink. He won’t eat, won’t drink some tea, he won’t move a goddamn muscle. Now Sam would categorize himself as a pretty easy going guy - he has to be, with the insane amount of crap going on in his life - but when push comes to shove, he can out-stubborn the moon, the tides, and even his father. It’s how he managed to get to America and carve out what little freedom he could, so when Castiel returns with two steaming mugs of what smells like his favorite cinnamon tea, he refuses to acknowledge him. 

Castiel slides into the loveseat opposite him, settling the mugs on the coffee table with barely even a thump, stony and controlled as ever. Sam bites his cheek, wills his eyes to dry.

It feels like a stalemate, like the calm before the hurricane, each breath of theirs practically deafening in the stuffy room. Sam wishes his pride would let him open a window; he can feel himself blushing in his ears, the heat of embarrassment skittering under his skin, and he knows that he could stop it all right now if he just broke down and  _ apologized _ , but then that would mean that he’ll lose whatever game they’re playing right now, and he just can’t let that happen. 

The doorbell rings, cutting through the silence with all the subtleties of a punch to the face, and Sam risks a glance up at Castiel’s face. He’s already moving, with an annoyed huff of breath, one hand in his pocket as he makes his way to the door. 

Out of his sight, Sam lets out a gasp he didn’t know he was holding, wrapping his arms around his torso to stop himself from falling apart at the seams. The hurricane rears up, roaring in his ears, and Sam clutches at his head, temples pounding. He doesn’t even hear Castiel sliding next to him, until all of a sudden there is a hand resting gently on his back, and the smell of basil under his nose. He starts, but Castiel doesn’t pull away. 

“Eat,” is all he says, one folded slice of veggie pizza in his outstretched hand.

Sam shakes his head. “I can’t,” he moans, face hot. He’s pathetic - pathetic and pitiful, a wretched mess of a whiny teenager. He’s a disgrace to his family, to his country, and this is why John hid him away, because he was ashamed of Sam’s weakness, because he can’t even eat a fucking pizza without crying, and now Castiel knows too, has seen him at his worst and his feeblest, and somehow that hurts the most.

Castiel, eyes shiny, doesn’t turn away. “Please.” 

He can’t. He  _ can’t _ . 

With a hand like lead, he takes the pizza from him, and brings it to his trembling mouth. He can barely taste it, nose stuffy and eyes hot from unshed tears, but he swallows it down. And he swallows down another mouthful, and another, until by some miracle, he’s eaten a slice of pizza without vomiting. Shaking like a leaf in a tornado, he grabs for Castiel’s hand, crushing it in his grip, gulping frantic breaths like he’s just climbed a mountain. 

“Another,” Castiel says, and Sam breaks.

“Please,” he begs, fat tears spilling down his face, “I can’t, don’t - don’t make me, please - “

“Yes you can,” he gentles, ripping off a small piece, holding it to Sam’s mouth. “Come on.” 

Little by little, the pizza disappears as Castiel feeds him at a steady pace, Sam’s protests fading when he realizes how hungry he really is, and his shaking subsides. Five slices in, Castiel apparently decides that Sam has had enough, extricating his hand from Sam’s grip to box the rest of it away. Sam, for his part, can only drop his head, exhausted, the start of one major headache creeping its way across his skull. 

“You did very well,” Castiel murmurs, one hand coming to rest on Sam’s neck, rubbing lightly. “Thank you.”

When Sam looks up, he’s shocked to see that Castiel has tear tracks to match his own. “If it’s all the same to you,” he says, voice rusty, “I’d like to go to bed now.”

“Of course.”

He breathes, deep into his abdomen, letting it fill his lungs, then out, emptying himself fully, before he tries to stand - a useless act, it turns out, as his jelly-legs fail him before he even gets off the couch. But Castiel catches him before he falls, one arm around his waist, Sam’s face pressed against his firm chest. His skin feels tight, like he’ll burst right out of it, and he takes in a heaving breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Why don’t you go and wash your face,” says Castiel, voice rumbling Sam’s bones. “I’ll change your sheets.”

Step by step, they stumble into his room. Castiel deposits him at the bathroom before slipping out, rummaging through the linen closet, and Sam risks a look at himself, wincing at his reflection. He looks like absolute shit. He looks like someone who hasn’t really eaten or slept or washed himself in two days, and not at all like the prince he’s supposed to be. He can’t believe Castiel can even look at him. 

When Sam shuffles into the bedroom, Castiel is fluffing his duvet, stony-faced and somber, and something like a giggle bursts from his mouth before he can stifle it. “Sorry,” he says again, as Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him. “Slipped out.”

A smile slowly works its way onto Castiel’s face, and Sam can’t help but match it, heart suddenly lighter. At least, until Castiel asks, “Is there anything else you need from me, sir?”

Because when Sam was little, when he had just lost his mother, and his father was away more often than he was home, when he couldn’t stop crying for days on end, Dean would steal into his room and stay with him until he fell asleep, the warmth of his body shielding him from loneliness. Sam misses his brother so much he aches with it, like he imagines a phantom limb would be, and Castiel isn’t Dean, not by a fucking longshot, but Sam’s desperate enough to ask, softly, face hot enough to cook a freaking egg, “Would you… I mean, you don’t have to, but, would you - would you stay with me?” 

It’s a little pathetic, and he almost wishes Castiel will refuse to save them both the dignity, but he can’t help but sigh in relief at Castiel’s nod. “I will.”

Already in sweatpants, Sam clambers into bed, undoing all of Castiel’s neat handiwork, and holds his breath until it becomes adamantly clear that Castiel isn’t following him in. He turns over, eyeing Castiel as he stands by the door like the world’s most awkward marble statue. “Uh, Cas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I meant, um,” and he blushes again, shame tempered only a little by the pounding in his temples, “I meant like - in the bed. With me.” The penny drops after a moment, and Castiel’s eyes widen, but Sam is too damn tired to let himself think about the implications of what he’s just asked. “Please?”

Castiel doesn’t move a muscle. Sam turns back over, drawing the covers up around him, eyes beginning to water again. Stupid boy, stupid idiot boy, what the fuck was he thinking - 

The bed dips as Castiel slides up next to him - on top of the sheets - as rigid lying down as he was standing up. It’s not the same, not even in the same ballpark, but Castiel is a warm body, his breath a sweet relief against the white noise of silence. “I’m here,” Castiel intones, “I’m here. Go to sleep.”

Sam’s asleep before he can even count to ten. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it only took 3 months this time


End file.
